The Company I Keep
by Buridanical State
Summary: Spencer discovers that what he fears the most is the one thing he can't live without.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes: I thought I'd try my hand at a multi-chapter. Although the idea for this story has been rattling around in my brain for quite some time, it is my first Criminal Minds fic. So, please be gentle. I've decided to keep the chapters relatively short so that I can update quicker. **

**This story is rated M, mostly for language and later slash. Also, please be forewarned if you find depictions of Mental Illness in fiction offensive.**

****I do not own Criminal Minds or its associated characters.****

"_No man is happy without a delusion of some kind. Delusions are as necessary to our happiness as realities." -_Christian Nevell Bovee

"Nothing to say, Dr. Reid?"

He was being baited. He knew he was being baited, and he wouldn't give them what they wanted this time.

"No profound quotes or quirky witticisms?"

The semi-darkened room echoed with mocking laughter.

"Not even a random statistic?"

A movement out of his peripheral vision brought his attention to the third figure in the room.

"The day is done, and tonight I long for rest."

"I know, but I want to stay awake a while longer, see if he breaks tonight."

Spencer stayed silent throughout this exchange. At this point, he knew that there was no talking his way out of the situation. Everything he'd said had only served to make matters worse. He had given these two enough weapons to use against him. At times like these, the ghost of Gideon would rise up to haunt him.

_**'You don't need a gun to kill somebody.' **_

Gideon with his arms-length affection, always there with his cryptic advice and a fatherly pat on the shoulder. Gideon with that all-knowing smile that hadn't struck him as obnoxious until years after the man was gone. Gideon who was indeed gone. Not dead- No. That would be too final, too clean. He had simply left. They always left. He found patterns for a living, and he hadn't seen that coming? Some genius.

"You look pensive, Dr. Reid. A penny for your thoughts? No?"

The man sat before Spencer's chair, cross-legged on the floor and smiled up into the carefully blank face.

"Now, I know I'm no profiler, but I'm willing to bet I know just what's running through that head of yours. Mind if I take a stab at it?" He laughed darkly with true amusement.

The woman sat up abruptly in the bed, her voice taking on an exasperated tone as she repeated her request.

"Quit, quit for shame! The learned is happy nature to explore. The fool is happy that he knows no more. The rich is happy in the plenty given. The poor-"

She halted and glared when her rant was disrupted by more laughter. Composing herself, she stated calmly and with a thinly veiled threat in her tone, "Sleep will come when thou art fled."

"Okay, okay. I get the point. I'll be quiet and let you get your beauty rest. Just let us finish this one conversation. I think Spencer was about to open up to me."

She flopped back onto the pillow and grumbled wearily, "I am defenseless utterly. I slept, methinks, and woke. And slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep."

The man looked away from his companion and up into hazel eyes.

"Now, where were we?"

Spencer refused to blink or look away, and in the back of his mind he thought 'Hotch would be proud.' He thought of his Unit Chief then, of all they had accomplished and overcome as a team with that unmoving rock that was Aaron Hotchner to ground them. He was a constant: an unchanging, unshakable force that could not always be predicted but could always be trusted. And Spencer did trust him. He'd been forced to trust him when he'd first joined the B.A.U. and met the man who would order their lives to a large extent. He'd chosen to trust him to deliver him from the very hands of Death, clinging to that strong fortress as the dirt from his own grave still clung to his clothes. A modern day Lazarus. He'd learned to trust the man all over again in the following months. That knowing look and forbidding stare cutting straight to the heart of his anger and anxiety. That firm hand briefly clasping his shoulder months later, the sincere and unspoken "Well done. I'm proud of you. Don't give in." when he'd needed it the most.

"There really is no such thing as an atheist, is there?"

The sheer absurdity of the non sequitur caused Reid to blink himself out of memories long past.

"Touch a nerve, Dr. Reid?" the man smirked.

"According to 2004 polling data, between three and nine percent of the population of North America self-identified as atheists. A 2008 study found that there were about 34.2 million Americans, roughly 15 percent of the population who claimed to hold no religious beliefs. To say that Atheism doesn't exist is- "

"While I'm happy to hear you break your little silent protest," he spoke over Reid, "I didn't say that Atheism doesn't exist. What I _said _was that there are no atheists."

Reid pondered the semantics being used and was loath to admit that he couldn't decisively say what the statement meant.

"Alright," he nodded slowly. "My mistake. Please explain."

The upturned face broke into a huge grin.

"Well, Dr. Reid, I'm glad you asked."

He stretched his legs out from their crossed position and leaned back on his hands, head tilted and eyes shining.

"Atheism, as I'm sure you know, isn't just the denial of the existence of God. It is the unbelief in any power higher than oneself, than man as a whole. The assertion that there is nothing and no one watching over us, guiding our steps. That we are all just wandering along, doing the best we can in this bastard child of Time and Chance that we call the universe."

The man's expression was entirely too serene, and Spencer tried not to be just a little annoyed.

"I don't think that's the actual definition, but the general concept is correct."

"Of course it is. I would never say something to you that didn't make sense. You should know that by now." He smiled widely. "But I digress. The simple truth is that the purely scientific explanation to the origins of the universe creates one of four distinct types of individual. First, there are those who reject The Big Bang Theory, The Theory of Evolution, and virtually every other 'Theory' that doesn't fit into established religious doctrine.

"There are those who accept much, if not most of the scientific data on the origins and evolution of the universe but are honest enough to admit that science can only explain so much. Now, they may or may not profess belief in a specific deity or deities, but they believe in _some_ higher power that could be classified as supernatural.

"The third type, in my opinion has the potential to be the most dangerous. Some of these people automatically refuse to entertain any suggestion of an explanation that can be construed as other than scientific and/or natural; and others have looked at the evidence, counted the tallies, and after much thought and deliberation, come to the conclusion that there is no God."

Reid had to interject at this point.

"And how is that more dangerous than any other stance? How is it more dangerous to rely more on facts and research than superstition and lore about a worldwide amalgamative pantheon that no one has been able to prove the existence of in the thousands of years that humans have been capable of pondering such things?"

Unaffected by the outburst, the man resumed his cross-legged position, grasping his ankles as he rocked excitedly a few times, like a child at story time. His eyes were wide and sparkling with mirth as he gleefully exclaimed, "Oh, I do love a good debate!"

They talked for hours, and Spencer was more than a little surprised to find someone as well-read as himself in any subject that didn't have a purely pop-cultural basis. The man pointed out the Caligulas and the Mengeles of history, the horrors of genocide, and the modern eugenics movement. Spencer countered easily with religiously motivated ethic cleansing, the Muslim and Christian roles in the Crusades, and the Hindu Caste system that affected so many millions to this day. In the end, they reached a stalemate of sorts, and there was a silence between them. Spencer's head lolled back, eyes closed against the light of the coming day that flooded the room. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, fighting off the inevitable headache.

"What's that, Dr. Reid?" the man asked tiredly from his supine position where he had begun to doze on the floor.

Spencer opened his eyes briefly, not realizing that he had spoken. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes once more as he mumbled, "Caligula wasn't an atheist, anyway. The Romans were polytheists. That point was invalid."

A weary chuckle follow by the sleep slurred, "You never give up, do you Doc?"

Spencer found himself laughing, truly laughing, for the first time in what seemed like years.

"No. I suppose I don't." He frowned then. "As a matter of fact, this entire debate was fruitless. Your original position was that there are no atheists. You never reached a satisfactory conclusion."

"I never reached a conclusion at all. I still have my fourth point to cover and a few clarifications to make on some previous statements. Like I said, I'd never tell you something that doesn't make sense. You can trust me on that. But for now, it's late… or early. We should both get some rest."

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome. **


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing that Spencer noticed upon waking was persistent pounding at the front door. It took a moment for him to realize that the noise was separate from the sound of his own heartbeat echoing in his head. He'd never really get use to these headaches, but he had come to expect them. The shades were drawn, leaving the bedroom in the blessèd darkness that he had once found so unnerving. The pounding grew even louder after a short break. He grumbled something unintelligible even to himself as he rose from the antique rocking chair that he'd taken to falling asleep in lately. That was the second thing that Spencer noticed- the shouted protests of joints and muscles kept in the same position for far too long. His left knee was the loudest dissenter. He'd have to remember to keep it elevated for a while later in the day. _Speaking of which. _Squinting at the wall clock, he made his way across the living room. The Roman numerals read 9:36, and for the life of him, Spencer couldn't say if it was now AM or PM. That horrific pounding was much too close now, and thinking only of making it stop as soon as possible, he wrenched open the door.

Perhaps at some other time, the sight before him might be amusing. Derek Morgan stood, fist poised in midair, looking somewhat sheepish. "Hey." The frustrated glare the man had received immediately after the door swung open briefly threw him off his self-confident stride. "Didn't wake you up, did I?" The glare intensified. "O…k. That didn't really deserve an answer. Can I come in?" Spencer ran a hand over his eyes, pressing briefly against the throbbing there. "Morgan, this uh- This really is not the best time." With his eyes shielded from the hallway light, he missed the fleeting disappointment and agitation on the other man's face. Morgan quickly regained control and offered a light-hearted, "C'mon, Pretty Boy. Don't tell me you already have company. You're liable to hurt my feelings."

Stepping back to allow his co-worker entry, Reid mumbled just loud enough for Morgan to hear, "That's not the only thing I'm 'liable to hurt' right now."

"Whoa… Somebody didn't have his coffee yet. Just sit down; I'll put on a pot."

Morgan moved toward the kitchen, not really expecting another response until the genius was good and caffeinated.

"Not that I don't appreciate being woken to what sounded like the Gestapo about to carry out a raid or the generous invitation to coffee in my own apartment, but what are you doing here, Morgan?" It was a little easier to hide the hurt and disappointment this time. "I'm raiding your kitchen and getting us some coffee," he grinned before walking around the island countertop that separated the kitchen and dining room from the living room. The older agent began gathering the needed supplies, a reserved smile pulling at his lips. "And Spencer?" He looked up in response. "The Gestapo wouldn't have knocked." The scowl this elicited turned the reserved smile into a full-out grin. "Is this what it feels like to be on the receiving end of unsolicited information?" Morgan laughed as he easily found both of their favorite mugs and set them aside while the coffee brewed.

"Damn, kid. I'm starting to think that 'Instant Human: Just Add Coffee' mug was right." He leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

"I don't really have any reason to be up early right now. If you had waited until I called to invite you over, I'd have been out of bed and fully awake when you arrived." Morgan shifted a bit, and the reluctance to say what he was about to say was made obvious. "We both know that wasn't gonna happen, Spencer." The words were spoken with no apparent anger or censure, but they chafed at Reid nonetheless. "Don't you think it's a little unfair to do this now? It's been difficult enough for me without you coming here and dropping something else in my lap." Morgan opened his mouth to speak but closed it almost instantly. It wouldn't do to speak impulsively now. So he busied himself with the almost instinctual act of preparing their coffee.

The sound of a mug being set on the coffee table beside him convinced Spencer to open his eyes. He briefly considered the chances of drinking the much needed brew without spilling it all over himself in his reclining position. It wasn't worth the risk. Sitting up properly on the sofa as Morgan took the armchair opposite, he took the warm mug in both hands with a quiet 'Thank you'. The two drank their coffee in silence, the only sound the faint ticking of the wall clock. This was fine. He could handle this. For once, Morgan had listened to what _he_ had to say. He really couldn't have handled a weighty conversation at this point, and he sent a small, grateful smile in Morgan's direction for this concession.

"Spencer, I-"

"Damn it, Morgan!" The warm, sticky coffee sloshed out of the mug and onto the table on which it had been slammed. The irate young man was on his feet and pacing the room before Derek had time to blink. "You- You couldn't just let it go. You couldn't think entirely of someone other than yourself for ten minutes, could you? You inconsiderate _ass_!"

It took a considerable amount of self-control to deny the impulse to snatch the raving brat by the arm and force him to sit down and shut up. He was sick and tired of walking on eggshells, of placating someone who refused to be calmed. "Did you know that the word 'hysteria' comes from Greek and can be roughly translated as 'wandering uterus'?" Reid stopped in his tracks, mouth open and staring blinkingly. "What?" Morgan cleared his throat and settled back further into the armchair. "Yeah. See, it was thought that women became overly emotional and irrational due to-" "I _know_ the etymology of the word, Morgan!" Reid snapped. "I just don't know what it has to do with the present conversation."

"Well," he ground out, "why don't you pop a few Midol and figure it out."

Reid's eyes grew wide, a look of utter disbelief coloring his features. "Did you just… Are you calling me a…" Spencer was literally too angry for words. Morgan decided that it would be wise to get a word in before the shock wore off and the man regained his momentum. "I came here today for _you_. I have no intention of asking you to say or do anything that you aren't ready for. Not now, not ever. If you had let me get out a full sentence, I could've told you that earlier. Or do you honestly think I'm low enough to try to take advantage of the situation? That I'm impatient enough and callous enough to risk everything we've been working toward by being that selfish? Come on, Pretty Boy. You know me a lot better than that."

Against his better judgment, Spencer felt his defenses falling, and judging by the relief that flitted across the other's face, he had noticed as well. Derek took Spencer's mug from the coffee table into the kitchen, refilling it and adding an obscene amount of sugar. He returned to the living room with a damp cloth in hand, silently cleaning the sticky mess from his friend's earlier outburst. When he was done, he set the mug before Spencer and returned to the armchair, where he drained the last dregs of his own rapidly cooling cup. The wall clock continued in its role as constant reminder of the lack of conversation until a small voice cut through the cadence. "I'm sorry, Derek. My behavior was completely out of line." He spoke the words into his coffee cup, unable or unwilling to witness the expressions as they played across Morgan's handsome face. There would be tenderness, sympathy, and worst of all, that incomprehensible acceptance. He didn't have to wait long for a response.

"Don't worry about it." No accusations, no guilt trips, and no empty platitudes. It was typical Derek Morgan- that easygoing, confident assurance that was so often mistaken for a cavalier attitude. Nothing about the man was cavalier. Spencer couldn't remember an instance where Derek had put his own needs or desires ahead of another person's. Even with years' worth of late-night hookups and one-night-stands, none of his brief romantic interests had ever been led to believe that they were anything more. If it became apparent that a potential partner didn't understand or accept that fact, he would quickly extricate himself from the situation with charm and grace that could only be described as masterful. Prentiss once called him a Professional Dog, but the half-chuckled, half-slurred comment made between sips of some neon blue tropical atrocity could hardly be counted as a legitimate insult.

Derek was a joker by nature, but he was always careful not to be hurtful with his gibes and didn't hesitate to apologize if someone took offense. His anger was reserved for people and situations that truly deserved it. So, the fact that he had made such an offensive remark today showed just how much his patience had been tried. Spencer looked up to meet Derek's gaze and nearly drowned in the depth of emotion that he found in those dark orbs. It was all at once piercing and intimate, cautious and affirming. This was the man who kicked down doors and disarmed bombs. He could put the fear of God into an Unsub who had never felt fear, yet his arms were the first to embrace a traumatized child. And when the smoke has cleared, the first ray of light in the darkness that consumes their daily lives is that blinding smile. No- Derek Morgan wasn't cavalier. There wasn't any one word that could truly define him. He was the Jester _and_ the Knight and so many things outside those extremes. 'And he wants _me_,' Spencer thought dazedly. His expression must have given his thoughts away, because a barely suppressed smirk sent a flush of heat to Spencer's face. He lowered his gaze and resumed the intent study of his coffee.

"Still. I owe you an apology. I had no right to call you inconsiderate when I know that you are anything but."

"I believe the term was 'inconsiderate _ass_', but I suppose I can let it go this time."

The levity was back in Derek's voice, and it was amazing how much of a balm that was to Spencer's conscience. He was never very good at social interactions, often feeling like his feet spent more time in his mouth than on the ground. It was a personality flaw that had followed him form a young age into adulthood. He had lost count of the number of times he had been told to 'shut up' or 'bring it down a notch' or whatever the reprimand of the day happened to be. Even his memory didn't go back that far. "So…" Spencer trailed off awkwardly. "So," Morgan echoed. The word was questioning and expectant and said so much more coming from Derek than Spencer. "Do you wanna talk? About… anything?" he quirked an inquisitive brow. Spencer shifted uncomfortably, taking a long gulp of sickeningly sweet coffee. He scrunched up his nose, his face in a mock grimace.

"Are you sure that I usually take this much sugar?"

"Yup. I've got the formula memorized. 30 parts sugar to every 1 part coffee, right?"

Spencer felt his own face break into a grin.

"Right."

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	3. Chapter 3

It was after 8 pm when Spencer finally awoke from a rather lengthy nap. He didn't know what time Morgan had left, only that it had been sometime before nightfall. They had spent the entire day together in Spencer's apartment and, true to his word, Derek had steadfastly avoided any topic of conversation that would have put Spencer ill-at-ease. Spencer knew that this was unfair to the other man, but he couldn't bring himself to rescind the request. All in all, the day had gone much better than either expected. The late morning was spent in a sort of quiet companionship with Spencer listening as Derek filled him in on the goings-on of the other team members, both on and off the clock. When he provided a brief description of their most recent case, omitting the more gruesome details, Spencer felt himself tense. The whole time that Morgan was speaking, he was mentally preparing himself for some accusatory remark. The seemingly innocuous 'we really could have used you out there' that would have cut Spencer to the core never came, and he was never so glad to have the rule about not profiling each other ignored.

Had it really been two weeks since he had seen his family at the B.A.U.? Sure, they had all dropped by his apartment individually during his first few days at home, but the visits and calls stopped soon thereafter. Nobody can take a hint like a profiler, and Reid had dropped plenty of hints. They all decided that it was best to respect his need for privacy and solitude. The most difficult of them had been Morgan, of course. He had been so insistent about not leaving Spencer alone that it took nearly three hours and no less than seven promises to call if he needed _anything _to get the man to leave. The longing, pain-filled expression that he wore as he left that day reminded Spencer of someone who was being forced to watch his childhood home burn to the ground. He was gone a whole forty minutes before he called "just to check in". He called a couple of days later, claiming that he had been in the shower and heard the phone ring. _"I thought maybe I'd missed your call."_ Spencer didn't feel the need to mention caller ID.

Maybe he should have felt bad knowing that the team could function without him, but in all honesty, it was a relief. He didn't _need _that kind of responsibility. It seemed that all his life had ever consisted of was unending responsibilities. It was time to take care of himself, to plot a course with a set destination instead of being perpetually blown about by every strong wind and dragged by every current. His stomach growled, reminding him to focus on the immediate needs before pondering the grand scheme of things. Food, water, clothing, shelter. If only it were as simple as that old grade school diagram of the basic needs of living. Of course, it would be bad form to tell a group of eight-year-olds that there would come a day when everything you eat feels like a stone in the pit of your stomach and even water tastes like ashes in your mouth. How would you tell them that there would be times when washing another day's grime from your skin would seem a great ordeal and that dressing with heavy limbs and dragging yourself from your home nearly impossible. And, insult to injury, the job that pays for all this, that meets these simple needs, will fill your mind with nightmares too terrifying to stay confined to the realm of sleep. They would probably delegate that class to an off-season coach.

He made his way into the kitchen, thankful that Morgan had seen fit to turn on a light before he left. He looked around the small room. The scent of orange blossoms permeated the air. The counters were spotless, the dishes all clean and put away. The trash that had begun to overflow had obviously been taken out. The place was anti-septic compared to its previous state. So this was what Derek meant when he said that he would find something to occupy his time while Spencer slept. He had tried to hold out on sleep. He really had; but the slow, constant throb that started behind his eyes had crept deeper with each passing hour until no amount of triple word scores at Scrabble or rudimentary Trivial Pursuit questions could distract him. He snorted at the memory of how Derek had dominated the sports category.

Another grumble of protest put him back on task, and he mentally catalogued the scant provisions that he had on hand. The leftover Chinese would be several days old by now and far from appetizing. Perhaps he could salvage a couple of slices of bread for toast. It was nearly at the same level of hardness anyway. Deciding that he would settle for a glass of milk, Spencer opened the refrigerator… and gaped. It was nearly packed with groceries. He stood there oblivious to the chill as his mind reconciled what he was seeing with the vivid memory of a nearly barren fridge. Closing the door at last, he moved to the pantry and took in the sight of shelf after shelf stocked with non-perishables. Taped to a box of Cinnabon cereal (Derek had remembered that they were his favorite) was a purple post-it with Derek's tight lettering scrawled across it.

"_Hey Pretty Boy,_

_Can't have you starving to death. _

_Eat something will ya? You had_

_better put a dent in these supplies _

_by the next time I come over, and _

_don't even think that I won't check._

_-Derek_

Spencer smiled to himself. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to give Morgan that spare key for emergencies. He tucked the cereal under his arm, perusing the shelves before closing the pantry door. "Whatcha got there?" The box of cereal fell to the floor with a dull thud and the dry rattle of a poor product to packaging ratio. His heart was in his throat as he fought to tamp down the panic that had risen in an instant. "You know, for an FBI agent, you sure do frighten easily." The man tilted his head thoughtfully. "Though, I suppose that's the reason. Occupational hazard?"

"You- uh…" Spencer's tongue darted out to moisten his too-dry lips. "You could say that."

"Yeah. I suppose I could. Are you alright, Doc?"

"I'm fine." He bent quickly to pick up the neglected box and set it on the kitchen table. "Fine," he repeated, voice only minimally more steady.

"Why don't you sit down before you completely lose consciousness. I'm not exactly sure in my ability to revive you if you did."

The suggestion was obeyed as if it had been an order from Hotch himself. He plopped down onto the nearest chair immediately and, staring down at his shaking hands, addressed his hovering guest. "I didn't hear you come in." A snort of amusement was followed by the sound of shuffling feet and the opening of the refrigerator door. Spencer took a deep breath, letting it out slowly past his lips. He needed to calm down. Panicking had never done anybody any good. He took another breath at the sound of closing cabinet doors and the clang of stainless steel against stoneware. Even observing these easily recognizable noises didn't spare him the embarrassment of jumping at the appearance of the bowl and spoon along with the gallon of milk that was suddenly set before him.

"Jeez, will you eat something, already?" the man snapped impatiently. "You're shaking like a newborn chihuahua. You're probably hypoglycemic by now!"

"Sorry," Spencer whispered, picking up the box of cereal and ripping open the tab. His hands shook so badly that he ripped the inner bag nearly in two after a second attempt at unsealing it. Miniature cinnamon bun shaped pieces scattered across the table, and the other man sighed.

"No. _I'm_ sorry, Doc. I forgot how jumpy you can be sometimes. I didn't mean to snap at you like that." "It's okay," Spencer responded calmly, feeling the strange need to assure this man that he wasn't upset. He swept the cereal from the tabletop into the bowl and topped it off with a bit more from the box. _Why not? Everything in here is nearly sterile now anyway. The table is clean enough. _He broke the seal on the milk and poured until the cereal bobbed and threatened to spill right over the top of the bowl. He lifted the spoon to his mouth, humming in pleasure at the first taste.

"It's a good thing Lover Boy's not here to witness this. We'd never get rid of him."

"Exchh- Excuse me?" Spencer choked out, bits of cinnamon debris flying from his mouth as he cleared his airway.

"Lover Boy. You know: tall, dark, and cocky. Nice smile, carries a gun. Surely you know the guy you spent the entire day entertaining."

Spencer's face was noticeably flushed, something that he would adamantly attribute to the violent coughing fit if pressed.

"Der- Morgan? Yeah, of course I know Morgan. I just- uh, can't believe you called him that."

"Well, 'Pretty Boy' was taken."

Spencer ducked his head at the comment, amazed that he could still be embarrassed by the nickname after all these years. Maybe it was only Derek who could say it without causing this reaction. He was so used to it by now that it didn't even register until someone, usually some random LEO, parroted the term after listening in on their conversation. He tried not to dwell on their disbelieving expressions, their mouths twisted as if they'd just tasted something particularly foul. He tried to ignore the apology in Derek's eyes and the awkward silence that usually followed.

"How did you know that he calls me that? Have you been here all day?" The sound of the opposite chair scraping across the floor prompted Spencer to raise his lowered head. They regarded each other in silence for a few moments. When the man spoke at last, his voice was laced with incredulity.

"Spencer… _Doc_. You're kidding me, right? I mean, I know you've avoided asking the big questions, but I thought you'd be smart enough to have figured out the basics."

"The basics?"

The soft click of a door latch reached his ears, and turning around, he saw the woman standing in the bedroom doorway.

"That is how we are. By strength of will we cut off our inner intuitive knowledge from admitted consciousness." She padded tentatively toward them and took one of the two remaining chairs at the table. Her voice was soft and full of concern as she continued. "This causes a state of dread, or apprehension, which makes the blow ten times worse when it does fall."

"D. H. Lawrence. _Lady Chatterley's Lover_," Reid replied automatically, the aforementioned dread already seeping into his bones. She nodded slowly, with a gentle smile.

"Great. Now I have two of them!"

"I- I'm sorry? Two of what?"

"Two intellectual dreamers who refuse to suck it up and face the truth."

"At times it is folly to hasten, at other times, to delay. The wise do everything in its proper time."

"And when is the proper time? When will there ever be an ideal circumstance under which to discuss something like this? I won't hold his hand in this matter. You're crippling him!"

"Compassion brings us to a stop, and for a moment we rise above ourselves!"

Spencer's head went back and forth like a spectator's at a tennis match. Their voices were growing louder by the second. The man's increasingly biting and sarcastic remarks were wearing holes in the woman's already thin patience. The whirlwind of vitriol that swept through the small space left him with a feeling akin to hyperventilating. It was too much- too angry, too divisive, too… familiar. It was too, too familiar. Hadn't he been the silent, unwilling witness to these events in the past? Hadn't he sat at a table between two opposing players and offered himself as both bargaining chip and trump card? He was too young, too naïve to realize that no one ever really won the game.

"Stop," he whispered hoarsely, but as had happened so many years ago, his small voice went unnoticed. He wasn't a child anymore. "I said STOP!" He was a man. "That's enough!" Two shocked faces turned to him, one dissolving into a look of utter remorse, the other remaining proud. "That's enough," he repeated firmly. He wasn't a child anymore. "Tell me everything." He could handle the truth.

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome. **


	4. Chapter 4

The stricken look that graced the woman's face at Spencer's words only served to strengthen his resolve. What information could be so potentially devastating that the result was this level of aversion? She schooled her expression into a façade of casual nonchalance. "What is truth?" she shrugged, laughing lightly. The man sneered in disgust. "I'll take that as you washing your hands of this matter." She opened her mouth to protest but was beat to the proverbial punch. "You heard what he said. 'That's enough.' We've handled things your way for far too long." He turned his gaze to the young genius. "You want to know everything?" Spencer swallowed hard, his mouth working desperately to produce saliva. It was then, as he pondered the reason for his sympathetic nervous system going into overdrive that he knew what a dangerous game he was playing. Should he fold his hand and walk away before he lost more than he could afford to lose, or should he play thing to the end? He had always been a smart gambler, and he didn't like the odds on this one. _Still… _"Tell me everything." _Can't take Vegas out of the boy._

The man's face beamed with pride, and Spencer could have sworn that it was directed toward him. "Alright then. Shoot."

"Um… Shoot?"

"Dr. Reid, you're a scientist. Surely you know that every solid answer begins with the right question."

He swallowed again, mouth growing dryer by the second.

"Each tongue was thick with thirst: For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate that makes a man accursed." The woman muttered quietly as she filled a glass with water and placed it before Spencer. He took several gulps before placing the glass on table next to the bowl of soggy, uneaten cereal. "And Fate will use a running noose for the best man and the worst.," he finished. She smiled and patted his shoulder before retaking her seat.

"Your question, Dr. Reid?"

"Oh- Um…" Spencer cleared his throat. "I- uh… I asked if you'd been here all day. You never answered." The man tugged at his hair in frustration.

"Oh for the love of- A _real_ question, Doc!"

"A man who is master of patience is master of everything else," the woman scolded. He scoffed and retorted, " 'Abused patience turns to fury.' How's that for a quote?"

"How long have you been here?" Spencer projected over what was sure to become a verbal sparring match.

"Finally! So you haven't completely lost the ability to think logically."

"Why do you have to be so… _caustic_?"

"That's an answer for another question. One at a time please."

"Well? How long have you been here?"

"Here in this apartment or here in general?"

"Either… both. Just answer the question. Please."

The man leaned back, tilting the chair onto two legs briefly before letting gravity bring him back down with a thud. "In a way, you could say that we've always been there. We've always lived somewhere in that landmine that you call a subconscious. But I think you figured that out already. What you're really asking is when did we make an actual appearance." Spencer's heart rate began to quicken. The room was growing warmer with every passing second, and his stomach felt oddly unsettled. "Think, Dr. Reid. When was the first time you saw us? Either of us?" The pounding in his ears and the steady whoosh of blood nearly drowned out the man's questions.

"Tact in audacity is knowing how far you can go without going too far," the woman spoke in rapid hushed tones. The room was spinning now, and it was hot, so stifling hot that Spencer wondered if he wasn't on his way to Hell, having by-passed the traditional milestone of dying. They had even sent him his own personal escorts. The chair clattered to the floor, and Spencer stumbled through the apartment. Bracing himself against every available wall, he groped his way dizzily to the bathroom, his demons dogging his every step.

"_Think, _Spencer! You have to remember. I can't tell you anything that you're unwilling to know."

He made it to the bathroom just in time to sink to his knees on the cool tile. The nausea overwhelmed him, the bile stinging in his throat refusing to be kept in check another second.

He didn't know whether it was a good or bad thing that he hadn't really eaten anything today. As it was, it felt like his stomach was being flipped inside out like the lining of a worn suitcase that's come undone. It might have been more comfortable without the dry heaves that wracked his thin frame if he _had _eaten, but then it would have just prolonged the amount of time he spent kneeling with his face in a location that a face should never be. He felt completely empty when it was over. It was as if everything he was, all that he had ever been, had been purged from his being, flushed away like so much waste along with the contents of his stomach. He sat stock-still and staring into a bottomless void, unsure of what to do next.

Then, as a great tide, it washed back into him- all the pain, the grief, the sheer terror of reality. And he wept. His body shook with the force of his sobs as unchecked tears streamed from his bloodshot eyes. He wept as he had never wept before. He wept for Tobias Hankel and Ryan Philips, for Elle and Gideon, his father and… The scream that ripped from his lungs was primal. He was a trapped and wounded beast chewing through its own limb, desperate to escape what it was incapable of understanding. He screamed until his throat went raw and his lungs turned to fire in his chest. The silent figures watched form the doorway, the man looking vaguely uncomfortable, the woman swiping at her tear-stained face.

"And all the woe that moved him so that he gave that bitter cry. And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, none knew so well as I." Her voice was quiet and choked with emotion as Spencer slumped to the bathroom floor, curled in on himself with his cheek against the cold tile. He gasped for air, struggling to breathe with some semblance of normalcy. "I had no choice. He asked for the truth. This is the result of putting off what we should have done in the beginning." She tsked at him, wiping the remaining tears from her eyes.

"It is an interesting thing, denial. Knowing you are in it doesn't get you out of it."

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	5. Chapter 5:  Turning Points

**Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone who left reviews and to those who put this story on their alerts / favorites. It is very much appreciated!**

**After much self-debate, I have decided to split Chapter 5 into several chapters instead of one gigantic chapter post. Now to explain **_**why**_** it was over 10k… **

**This chapter and the ones to follow, all of which are titled "Turning Points" mostly follow Derek and the progression of events leading up to directly where Chapter 4 ends. I firmly believe that there is a rhyme to my reason. You simply have to follow along to see it. So, here goes. I hope you enjoy! **

****Disclaimers are in Chapter One****

**Turning Points**

It began with, of all things, a conversation between Derek and Penelope. How their typically innuendo-laced banter had morphed into a potentially life-altering discussion was beyond him, but Derek had walked away from the colorful tech's lair with a decline on their traditional club night and enough questions to keep him awake for the rest of the weekend. She and Kevin were getting pretty serious. Derek knew that, of course, but to hear it spoken in such a solemn manner made him wonder just why she felt the need to say it. Then she struck. With all the intensity and fervency and pure unmitigated… _sweetness_ that only Garcia could pull off all at once, she struck.

"What's Reid doing tonight? Maybe you two could catch a movie or a Star Trek marathon or whatever a Hot Chocolate Adonis and his pet Baby Genius like to do on a Saturday Night."

"Whoa… Baby Girl. Hold _up. _First of all, Star Trek? Secondly, Reid is not my 'pet' anything."

"You're right_._ If anything, you're the one on _his _leash."

"Wait- What?"

"How many hours per week would you say that you spend with Reid?"

Derek's brow furrowed.

"Just answer the question."

"Um… Not discounting break times and provided there's no new case, about 46 hours per week, the same amount of time I spend with anyone else on the team."

"Mmhmm. And if there _is _a case, which you know very well there usually is?"

"Mama, where are you goin' with this?"

She peered at him expectantly over her glasses with a huff.

"Alright! Let's see…" He thought for a moment. "Dammit, woman. You know there's no accurate way for me to answer that. It all depends on travel time, the duration of the case, field assignments, room arrangements-" She cut him off.

"Which are nearly always arranged so that you and Reid get to share!" She raised a finger to show how important this single fact must certainly be.

"There's no 'get to' about it. The kid has nightmares. You all know that at this point, but he's talked to me about them from the beginning. It's better for him to have someone that he trusts close by at times like that."

"Someone he trusts?" She frowned.

"Yeah." Then seeing her expression, he added, "Not that he doesn't trust everyone on the team. It's just… you know. Reid has issues just like the rest of us. I mean, we all trust different people with different aspects of our lives. That's normal."

"Sure it is, Sweetest."

"Penelope, where is this all coming from? And more importantly, where are you trying to go with it?"

She seemed to be choosing her next words carefully, something that was never a good sign, in his experience.

"Okay. Hear me out." He gave her a suspicious look.

"I'm listening."

"In the six years that I've known you, you've been on _one _second date. I'm assuming that's due to the fact that things didn't go quite according to plan on the first date, but nevertheless, I'll be generous and count them as two separate events."

"So I like to mix it up a little. Variety is the spice of life, ya know."

He delivered his signature wink.

"Right." She deadpanned

"Well, while you've been playing _grab bag_ in your quest for variety in the summer of your not-so-eternal youth, the illustrious Dr. Spencer Reid has been stuck in a rut that would make the Grand Canyon look like a ditch. That's not to say that he spends his nights off handing out t-shirts at abstinence rallies, but that's beside the point."

"Abstinence rallies?"

"Honey, keep up. And don't interrupt."

"Sorry. Proceed."

"As I was saying." She paused. "What was I saying? You know, you really should pay more attention to your surrounding when you're out 'mixing it up'. You might learn a few things."

He sighed heavily, more confused by the newest tangent but smart enough not to point it out.

"Alright, Princess. What am I missing?"

For a moment, it seemed that she wouldn't continue, and something akin to trepidation showed in her eyes.

"I feel like I'm betraying his trust. Even though he's never actually seen fit to confess aloud what is so painfully obvious."

"Penelope, you're talkin' in circles again."

"Why does Reid attend Club Night? I would use the phrase 'participate in', but it's not really applicable. He doesn't really _participate _at all. He doesn't drink. He doesn't dance. Convincing him to stay past midnight is like pulling teeth. Then there are those headaches. I'm pretty sure the loud music and the flashing lights do nothing to help that."

Derek hadn't thought about that. It never occurred to him when he goaded Reid into going out with them that the atmosphere might literally become too painful for the man to bear.

"So, why does he subject himself to that week after week?" she continued.

"Well?" he asked after a good thirty seconds had passed. "Are you gonna enlighten me here?"

She gave a disbelieving scoff. "Oh no, Sugar. There are some things that you need to answer for yourself. And while you're at it, ask yourself why it is that you invite him back week after week long after you've abandoned the excuse of playing wingman to a pilot who refuses to even board the plane. Or how, after spending over 100 hours in a six day period, chasing the Unsub of the week all over Creation, you could possibly choose to spend even more time with someone who's been practically glued to your hip for days."

"Who? Reid?"

"Yes, Reid! Half the time you don't even make it back to your house until the next day."

"Baby Girl, it's just kinda routine. So we grab a bite to eat, watch some bad movies, maybe play a few hands of cards. It's a pretty tame way to decompress after a case. I would think you'd be happy about that."

"Oh, I'm _very _happy about that. I know there are methods of _decompression _that I would much rather both of you avoid. So, it's good. Keeps you both out of trouble."

"I'm sensing a 'but' here."

"But…" She put less distance between them, looking up into his eyes, almost _willing _him to understand. "Have you ever considered why it's so effective?"

"Garcia…" he started, beginning to see the implications of what she was saying but not quite believing what he was hearing. Her bright red lips pressed into a thin line as equally brightly painted nails tapped his cheek from her cupped hand.

"Maybe you should try profiling yourself for once."

Derek would eventually get around to taking Garcia's advice. But for now, all he wanted to do was wind down after a long week and commence the traditional search for a hard drink and a soft body. He was almost convinced that Garcia had canceled at the least second so that he wouldn't attempt to find either of those things at another location. Their usual nightspot was _her_ favorite after-hours establishment after all. He preferred a more mellow atmosphere these days, though he would never admit that to anyone. As it was, the rest of the team, minus Hotch would either be there or en route already, and he couldn't just back out. Not after he'd made such a big deal of convincing Reid to join them once again. 'This is just another Saturday night,' he told himself. He would meet up with his friends, have a few drinks and a few laughs, hit the dance floor, and with any luck, he'd be doing his favorite variation of the Mambo by the end of the night. There would be plenty of time for introspection later.

Only that wasn't entirely the case. Because the funny thing about trying not to think about something is that it makes it that much harder to ignore. Why _was_ he out in some near-unbearably loud nightclub, under the garish lights of the dance floor that only served to highlight the equally garish outfits of the small crowd of 'ladies' pressing against him? And when did said ladies become so _bold_? The little group of self-proclaimed friends circled him like a school of hungry sharks. Reid would probably point out that sharks rarely attack in groups and that the best deterrent is to never swim alone. He remembered the genius telling him once that another word for a group of sharks is a 'shiver'. Feeling the predatory gazes of these females, the term felt completely appropriate. He pushed that unusual thought from his mind and refocused on the goal at hand.

It wasn't that they weren't all attractive in their own way, some more than others, of course. They just lacked something. It was something that he couldn't quite place but knew was missing nonetheless. They were attractive, enticing, fun… _**Shallow, petty, disloyal. **_It was amazing how fast a nice body, a winning smile, and an FBI badge could get them to turn on each other. It was when the pretty little redhead pressed her back firmly against his front and dipped low in a move more reminiscent of a strip club than a dance floor that he began to wonder if it were even worth it. Her attempt at subtle flirtation in the form of a thinly masked innuendo about his gun only served to bring the thought home. Maybe he should try this another night, at a more… mature establishment. Somewhere where the music didn't sound like Stephen Hawking on remix and the women behaved more like adults than overdeveloped girls with severe daddy issues.

It wasn't that late, was it? Maybe he and Reid could head out of there early and salvage the rest of the night with 'tamer methods of decompression', as Garcia would call it. Over the surrounding crowd, he scanned the club for the faces of his teammates. Rossi had left over an hour ago with a grumble of being too old to remain long in the world of youthful ignorance though, as always, he'd appreciated the tour. JJ bowed out not long after that, proclaiming that a hangover and a toddler who routinely woke at 7 am were not a pleasant combination. He spotted Prentiss at the bar, body language blaring her interest in the tall, dark-haired bartender who, by the looks of things, could use a crash course in basic profiling (or a sharp knock to the head). Morgan wondered if someone like that would be better suited for a petite redhead.

His gaze finally settled on a table toward the back of the room, where he found the final team member. Spencer Reid sat alone at the far side of the table, on a chair that faced the dance floor… staring directly at him. His face was completely open, but the emotion being shown was a puzzle to Derek. Derek stared back, eyes locking with the other man's even at this distance and lost the rhythm he had so effortlessly maintained. Those large, expressive eyes widened further in embarrassment and panic before he swiftly lowered his gaze and took a sip from the glass that he clutched.

"_Rum and coke, two slices of lime; hold the rum."_

It was his usual, and the bartender always made it a point to laugh at the joking way in which Spencer delivered the order, knowing that if Derek were close by when he did, the increased percentage of his tip would be well worth the effort.

Suddenly Reid looked as awkward and out of place as the first day they'd met. It was as though six years of forced socialization and the resultant personal growth had never occurred. It was rare to see him this flustered nowadays, not even when the occasional brave woman would somehow manage to fight her way past the brilliant mind that he used as a sword and shield and dare to express a genuine interest in him did he lose that façade of oblivious innocence. He still had some hang-ups regarding his personal space, and unfortunately, a few casual touches were to be expected in the ritual of flirtation. At this rate, he would never find Miss Right. 'Not that he's been looking,' Derek thought wryly.

Deciding that he just wasn't into this scene tonight, he made his way back to their table, leaving a chorus of indignant protests behind. Reid didn't look away from his glass until Morgan addressed him directly, though he had to have known that the man was standing there.

"So listen, Kid," Derek started slowly, "I'm not really feelin' it tonight. You wanna get outta here?" Reid emitted an odd sort of strangled wheeze and let the straw slip away from his mouth. He quickly covered his mouth and nose with a napkin and coughed a few times before finally allowing himself to meet Derek's gaze. "You alright, man?"

He nodded hastily. "Yeah. You just um… surprised me." Maybe the kid was even more tired than he looked. "Sorry about that," Morgan said skeptically. "So anyway, I'm ready to get out of here. Can I take you home?" Reid's face lit up with that same quirky smile that he wore whenever the next thing out of his mouth was sure to be a really bad joke. Derek mentally groaned as he prepared himself for the onslaught of lameness.

"Aren't you supposed to at least offer to buy me a drink first?"

Utterly confused, Derek looked down at the half glass of coke and lime and back to Reid's face. His eyes were sparkling with amusement as he held back a snicker. Then it clicked:

"Did you- Was that an innuendo?" he asked, eyes widening.

Reid snorted, mouth curved in a pleased half smirk. He took another sip of his soda and answered.

"If I say yes, do I get dinner and a movie too?"

Morgan plucked the drink out of his hand and made a great show of sniffing its contents.

"No- I guess he didn't forget to hold the rum. Still, I'm officially cutting you off. You're obviously more tired than I thought. I was gonna ask if you were up for hanging out after we leave, but I think maybe we've both had enough entertainment for the night."

Reid stood, gathering his coat and ever-present messenger bag.

"Yeah, because watching you get swarmed by beautiful women is my idea of entertainment."

Derek threw an arm over Spencer's shoulders.

"Don't worry. You're the prettiest thing I'm leaving here with tonight. No need to be jealous." He ruffled Reid's hair with a good-natured chuckle that tapered off when Spencer pulled away with a slight frown. "Pretty Boy? Somethin' wrong?"

"No, it's fine. I just remembered that I need to let Emily know that we're leaving. Excuse me a moment." And he slipped into the crowd before Derek could question him further.

The ride back to Reid's apartment was a nearly silent one. Morgan had tried to lighten the suddenly oppressive weight that seemed to settle around his friend's shoulder by attempting to engage him in light conversation. His comment about Prentiss relinquishing her chauffeuring duties to himself because she would probably stay until closing time failed to initiate the anticipated gossip session. Reid simply clutched his messenger bag tighter and said that at least one of them had a chance of not going home alone. Under normal circumstances, a statement like that would have been all the prompting Derek needed for a barrage of harmless yet relentless teasing at Reid's expense, but something told him that now was not the time.

"Kid, are you alright?" He divided his attention between his tense passenger and the road. Reid was slouched in his seat, the position of his body as relaxed as usual but the state of his muscles was anything but relaxed. He was still and tense, like a tightly wound spring just waiting to be triggered.

"Yeah. Of course. I just have a lot on my mind."

Derek passed a quick, scrutinizing eye over Reid. He apparently didn't have the energy to even try to mask exhaustion and frustration that creased the usually smooth surface of his face into a grimace of pain.

"Headache?" Derek asked, knowing how his own worry lines were crinkling.

"It'll go away. It's nothing I haven't dealt with before."

Morgan focused his vision exclusively on the road.

"I'm sure the loud music and flashing lights didn't exactly help."

A noncommittal grunt was his answer. He drove on in silence for a while until the question that had been on the tip of his tongue for the past five miles made its way past his lips.

"So, why do you do it, anyway?"

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Reid remove the hand that covered his eyes.

"Why do I do what?"

"I know it's not really your thing, the whole night-out-on-the-town routine. You don't really seem to enjoy it all that much, and I know it can be kinda uncomfortable for you sometimes. So, I guess I was just wondering why you still went."

He could feel Reid's eyes boring into him until, with a rough exhale, the younger man turned back to face the road himself. "Honestly? At this point, I'm not sure that I even know. Maybe it beats lying on the couch rereading books that I memorized the first time around. Maybe it's refreshing to see my friends gathered around a table that's not littered with photographs of mangled corpses and talking to strangers without having to question their relationship to the Unsub." The bitterness in his voice increased by increments as he spoke. Maybe I would _prefer _to spend my time off in an environment more suited to my own interests, but I can only say no so many times before someone threatens to physically drag me to participate in some overrated preconceived notion of 'fun'. He spoke the word like a swear.

Not knowing what to say, Derek remained quiet. He considered apologizing for goading Spencer into going places that he knew his friend wouldn't enjoy, but with him in such a strange mood, who knew how overanalyzed his apology would be? He would probably hear it as 'Sorry for inviting you at all. Now that I know how you feel, don't bother showing up in the future'. Derek most certainly did not want that. Reid's self-image was skewed enough as it was without worrying that he had just lost his best friend for simply speaking his mind. When Spencer next spoke, the bitterness had completely left his voice, replaced by a quiet resignation.

"Or maybe I'm still looking for something." Derek couldn't help but to take his eyes off the road for one second, just long enough to confirm with his eyes the dejection that had been breathed so softly that it could have been imagined. It wasn't.

"Maybe whatever you're looking for isn't worth finding. If it's causing you this kind of grief in the process…" Derek trailed off, shaking his head.

"And here I thought you were the romantic." The short laugh that accompanied Reid's words was far more sardonic than amused. Sarcasm may have been anger with its makeup on, but it did little to conceal misery. It wasn't like Reid to talk about something so personal without a direct prompt, let alone to even hint at anything related to himself and romance. Wondering just how out of the loop he had let himself become, Derek pressed on.

"You know, it you're looking to hook up with somebody, it might be a good idea to actually mingle a little bit. It's not gonna happen if you sit in one spot all night." He laughed at the recent memory of a woman who had stalked away from their table after enduring an impromptu history lesson on the discovery of zirconium oxide, followed by an enthusiastic step-by-step account of the process of synthesizing zirconium dioxide to form cubic zirconia. She was as pleased as her bling was real, but the look on her face was priceless. "Though you do manage to get a few nibbles just fishin' from the dock." As though recalling that scene and a dozen similar to it, Spencer laughed as well.

"The problem with that is I'm not much for catch and release."

This was more like it. The dark cloud that had settled over them back at the club was finally starting to lift. 'And just in time' Derek thought as he caught sight of Reid's apartment building. At least he had managed to cheer the kid up a bit. The comfortable silence continued until Derek eased his SUV into a visitors' parking space not too far away from the building. "Well," he said, giving Reid a playful slap on the shoulder, "if it makes you feel any better, you're definitely a keeper, in my opinion."

It was amazing how fast those wide, innocent eyes could become dark and shuttered. "Kid?" Reid shook himself out of his temporary stupor, dislodging Morgan's hand in the process. "Reid… Are you alright, man?" His answer was a swiftly opened and firmly shut car door. Then, stiff-backed as a soldier, Spencer covered the distance between the SUV and the front door with quick, determined strides. He never looked back. Not even when Derek rolled down the driver's side window to call out to him did he give any indication that he had heard. A good five minutes later, when Derek had stopped asking himself what the hell just happened, Reid's phone went straight to voicemail. Both numbers. He buzzed at the front entrance an uncountable number of times with no success. With one final frown and a muttered curse at the locked doors of the main entrance, Derek walked back to his vehicle and headed home.

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome. **


	6. Chapter 6: Turning Points

Only years of practice at suppressing some of the most disturbing images in existence allowed Morgan to shove his worries over the night's events into a neat little drawer to be dealt with later. Compartmentalization was a profiler's best friend- Without it, he doubted any of them would ever sleep again. He hated the thought of treating _any_ memory of someone he cared about as he would the gruesome details of a case, but it was too early in the weekend to be worn out.

The next day dawned cool and crisp, sunnier than a late autumn day had any right to be. He rose from the comfortable confines of Egyptian cotton less tired than expected and moved on autopilot. Bladder empty, coffee brewing, Clooney walked and fed, coffee bitter, cereal sweet… Cereal much too sweet. He had bought the diabetic coma in a box well over a month ago when Reid complained that there was never anything 'good' for breakfast when he crashed overnight. And just like that, the file cabinet labeled 'Spencer Reid' gave an ominous creak and spewed its contents onto the floor.

Here it was: Every file, every shred of evidence pertaining to the case strewn out, waiting to be ordered, to be analyzed. Derek didn't think of himself as a coward. How could he when he chose to dedicate his life to catching serial killers. He could lock himself in a room with the most cold-blooded of killers for hours. He could question and threaten, pry open the door to the twisted terror-lands that were their minds and take a stroll until he spotted what he needed to find. What he couldn't do- What he absolutely dreaded above all else, was the prospect of turning the tables on himself. _'I know what it's like to be afraid of your own mind.' _He laughed humorlessly. It was out of context and yet… so very true. He couldn't profile himself. But he could sure as hell profile the genius who got him into this mess.

'I guess the kitchen will have to do for a conference room' Derek thought as he gathered the mental files and prepared to address his audience. "Okay… What do we know about Spencer Reid? Let's start with the obvious." He paused in his leisurely pacing, taking a fortifying drink of Columbian Roast. "He's intelligent. _Highly _intelligent. So much so that he finds it difficult to interact with others in a social setting. This is partly due to the fact that he spent the majority of his childhood surrounded by people older than himself. He wouldn't have related well to people in his own age group, and the older students weren't exactly accepting of him as a peer. He was bullied. Tormented is probably a better word for it." Derek scowled at the memory of Reid recounting the acme of his bullying experience. Clooney cocked his head curiously but patiently waited for the man to continue. "He started college at age 12, entered the FBI at 21, and went on to become the youngest Agent ever to join the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Okay, so he's intelligent _and _driven."

He paused mid-step and turned to pace the other direction once we'd gathered his next thought.

"Spencer Reid is… awkward." He frowned, not liking the picture that painted. "But only with things that he doesn't know. Which isn't much. I think it's more nerves than anything else. I mean, once the kid gets a hang of something, it's almost annoying how good he can get at it. I should have never talked him into shooting pool. If I didn't know any better, I'd say the little twerp hustled me." Clooney gave a soft whine at the set of his master's jaw and the frustration in his voice. "Sorry, boy. That was kind of unprofessional of me. Tell ya what: Don't report that and I'll slip you an extra treat. How's that?" Dark, intelligent eyes seemed to spark with understanding as Clooney returned his sandy blonde head to its resting position on his front paws, like a Mafia don considering a proposal.

"Alright. Let's see… Reid hates crowds. He's gotten a lot more confident over the years, but it's easy to see that he still has a problem dealing with too many people at once. Probably has something to do with a crowd of people standing by and watching while a 12-year-old was stripped naked and… _Fuck!" _He growled the last, too angry to even finish that sentence. "It's a wonder the kid lets anyone near him at all. With all the abandonment and trust issues, the bullying, the humiliation. And I know. I _know _how some of the cadets treated him during training. He goes through all this, Clooney- All this shit, and people still see him as this clueless kid. I mean, how many of them would have the balls to try to talk down a psychotic holding the detonator to a bomb not three feet away? Or use a magic trick, a damn _magic trick _to save a train full of people. How long would it have taken before they were pissin' themselves and offering to sell out anybody they knew if Hankel would release them?" Clooney was on his feet and circling excitedly, but Derek was too lost in his thoughts to pay much attention. He sank onto a kitchen chair, manic thoughts freezing into a lucid tableau. "Spencer Reid is brave, and loyal, and resilient… He's not a kid. Never really was. He doesn't need to be sheltered. There's nothing left to shelter him from. He's strong- So much stronger than people know. He deserves to be happy, Clooney. I know life's not exactly fair, but someone that… _selfless_ deserves to be happy."

With startling clarity, he realized just how selfless Spencer truly was. He was selfless enough to be his best friend- to distract him from the demons in his head after a bad case, even when it was clear that he was barely holding together the stitches in the seams of his own peace of mind. He was selfless enough to laugh along with the teasing and endure the friendly touches that he knew would mean more to him than to this oblivious jock. He was selfless enough to subject himself to default rejection every time Derek invited him out only to abandon him by the end of the night. The thought left a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. A thousand tiny abandonments. Reid would know the exact number, remember every face. He had watched. He had watched every single time. Derek didn't need Garcia to confirm that theory. It was proven by that unreadable look across the room, by the cold shoulder when Derek had gotten too close, had been too thoughtless with his words. Patience has its limits, and Reid had reached his. Derek ran a hand over his face, pressing firmly against the tight set of his mouth, as though this physical action could stifle the next words to come barreling through his head. _'Spencer Reid is the best thing in my life. And he was selfless enough to let me figure that out on my own.'_

His right hand moved absently to pet the soft fur of the head that now rested on his knee. Looking down into Clooney's deep chocolate eyes, he sighed. "We're in deep trouble, aren't we?" Clooney's doggy grin almost resembled a smirk as he nudged his owner's hand and trotted off to the cabinet that held the treats. "Now that's just cold."

With an odd mixture of relief and fear, Derek held his breath as the phone was picked up after the fourth ring. At least Reid was no longer screening his calls, but what if he wasn't ready for what his friend would say now that he was willing to talk? Reid was smart enough to realize that it was pointless to try to avoid someone who sat one desk away from him every day at the office and slept one bed away on most cases. So, what if he was planning to opt for the band-aid method? What if he had decided to grit his teeth and bear a brief flash of pain rather than the unbearable alterative? To his astonishment, the voice that came over the line was as carefree and relaxed as it had ever sounded. He thought briefly that this was his out. If Reid was willing to practice avoidance, then he couldn't be faulted for following his example. But that constant desire to _know_, that need for final proof would not allow him to let it go.

A headache. To be more accurate, a migraine the likes of which he had never experienced. That was the excuse that Spencer gave. That and fatigue from the torturously long week. Derek was sure it wasn't a complete lie, but he knew it was far from the whole truth. A migraine was not a reasonable explanation for the previous night's behavior. Though pain and fatigue could account for the irritability, they could not account for the extreme nature of his reactions. The half-truth was ill-constructed. It was not the carefully crafted and well-executed lie that someone of Reid's intelligence and profiling background was capable of creating. It was bullshit. Spencer knew what it was, and he knew that Derek would know. So why even try, right? It was the closest thing to 'back off' he had ever heard from the non-confrontational man. He had extended a hand in friendship while drawing a line in the sand. Spencer Reid was nothing if not efficient.

Two weeks flew by in a blur of paperwork, consults, stale break room coffee, and more paperwork. Despite the fact that there were no new B.A.U. cases, the workload hadn't lightened by much. It was almost enough to make Derek wish for a new case. He wouldn't, of course. He had learned his lesson about that kind of thinking a long time ago. Usually, the worst thing about being stuck at the office was the monotony and sheer futility of the work. There would always be another form to fill out, another stack of documents to be read, another detective at the end of his rope, desperate for a fresh set of eyes on a case. It was never-ending, and for someone like Derek who hated being cooped up, it was a little taste of Hell. He was coming to find, however, that there were more reasons to hate this routine that he'd thought.

Being stuck in Quantico meant being stuck at his desk. Being stuck at his desk meant being stuck next to Reid. And being stuck next to Reid meant being drawn into exceedingly random conversations and friendly banter. Normally, this was the saving grace to long days staring down the abyss of bureaucracy, but things hadn't been _normal_ for weeks. Since their short conversation the day after that fateful Friday night, Reid had acted as if nothing out the ordinary had taken place. He was his same geeky, eccentric self- perhaps even a bit more laidback than usual. Derek could take only so much solace in the fact that things seemed easier for Reid.

Because while the unspoken confession and the subsequent unspoken gag order had little influence on his friend, it kept Derek on his toes all day. He'd made a decision to stop calling Spencer 'kid' two weeks prior, but he lost count of the number of times 'Pretty Boy' had almost slipped past his lips. Reid didn't seem to notice, but it was driving Derek crazy. More alarming than that was the number of times he had reached out a hand only to pull it back guiltily like a child who had been scolded to not touch. He never realized how addicted he was to touching Reid. Every sigh of frustration was a prompt for a one-armed hug or a clasp of the shoulder. Every indignant pout or ridiculous pun that made him laugh just because Reid had laughed created the strongest urge to tousle the perpetually messy hair.

Emily was saying something that must have been terribly amusing. Reid was smiling that heartbreakingly brilliant smile that made them all believe that they could do this job and retain some measure of innocence. Derek's fingers twitched, and he made a tactical retreat back into the break room. Who knew Reid's smile had that kind of range?

Maybe someday when people asked how they got together, they would wish it were a more exciting story. Maybe they would regret the fact that there were no dramatic revelations or declarations of undying love. Derek didn't think so, but maybe… It was a simple thing to invite his best friend to grab a bite to eat as they walked away from the jet. An invitation for good food and bad television after a case like that was a given. It was a small thing to let his arm slide from its resting place on the back of the couch and around slender shoulders. It was almost natural for that head to come to rest on his shoulder without a second thought as its owner continued to explain the numerous loopholes in the Three Laws of Robotics. And as the last scene faded out and the credits began to roll, that first kiss was as easy as breathing. It was a natural progression, like the merging of one second into the next. Derek's fingers dove into the silken locks they had longed to touch for so long, and Spencer's contented sigh was a mere echo of what Derek felt within himself.

If Derek were a superstitious man, he would have been tempted to concede that fortune does crack a smile now and then. If he were an utter pessimist, he might have said that life was going _too _well right now. But he refused to be either and decided to just enjoy this newfound… _contentment_? No- It was more than that. For the first time in more years than he cared to number, he was truly happy. Who would have thought that being in a serious relationship could be a positive thing? At least he hoped they were both serious. There was little discussion about their future as a couple, something that had been a huge relief nearly three months ago when they had finally drifted into this unnamed thing. Spencer wasn't too keen on labels and had pointed that out on their second date. By the one month mark, they had worked out their Rules of Engagement, as Derek jokingly called them. It seemed more like an unwritten contract to him, but if it made Spencer happy, then he would always listen. It was more than a bit shocking to hear Spencer demand exclusivity as one of his provisos. Not because he hadn't expected Reid to want that or that he thought the man would be too timid to ask. What shocked him was that Spencer had felt the _need_ to ask. Why would he want anybody else?

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	7. Chapter 7: Turning Points

**Author's Notes: Okay! I see you're still with me so far. The end of this chapter will bring us back to present time. Now do you see why I split it into three chapters? Anachronism is fun, but I hope no one was confused by it. Thank you ever so much to those who have reviewed, favorited, and/or alerted. Feedback from readers is always an inspiration! **

Lady Luck had never exactly been kind to any of them. She was cruel and petty, seeming to take immense pleasure in her own duplicitous nature. Derek tried to believe that there was some balance to it. After all, it was the hardships they'd endured that made them who they were today. He often thought of the train wreck that was his own youth. What sense did it make to deprive him of his father? Where was the fairness in leading an honorable man to be gunned down at the hands of common criminals, in front of his young son no less? To sacrifice that son's innocence to a monster and to give him his second taste of death when he was barely fifteen years old?

Spencer's life made about as much sense as his own. In fact, fate had possibly dealt him a _worse _hand. At least Derek had escaped eventually. Time may not have completely healed his wounds, but it had removed him from the source. Spencer's troubles had their own moving company. He thought of William Reid abandoning his own child to a mother who could barely take care of herself. It wasn't a childhood- It was a game of survival. He had survived the fear and loneliness that lurked behind closed doors and the unending torments that roamed the halls and grounds of his school. But he never really escaped. He was in college and still a child in an adult's world. His mother was still sick, his father still MIA. Then he was an adult, making the decision to have his mother committed and feeling the weight of that imagined betrayal every day. He was an adult being beaten and tortured and still working the case while his team could only look on in horror. He was an adult who, against all his instincts, allowed himself to believe that someone sane could actually love him, only to have a second father disappear without a trace. And above his head swung that damned Sword of Damocles. Derek didn't know if it would ever fall, but there was one thing he knew without a doubt: He would _never _be a William Reid.

Fate owed Spencer Reid _something. _No one could pay so much and get nothing in return. So it was with all this thought that Derek waited patiently for Spencer to finish the phone conversation. It was rare for him to get a call from Bennington. It was even rarer to get a call from a lucid Diana Reid, but this was the second such call this week. It had taken some coaxing and a bit of flat-out prodding to get to the bottom of the unusual calls, and Derek wondered how much Spencer really trusted him. As it turned out, his reluctance had nothing to do with mistrust. He was afraid to push the luck that he vehemently didn't believe in by telling anyone what was happening. It seemed so impossible that his old guilt could be relieved, his decision justified. For the first time in years, Diana Reid was consistently responding to medication. It was a new combination that Reid had approved them to try months ago, and they were just now giving him the full report. What he hadn't known until this week, what had him teetering so perilously on the edge of hope, was the news that Diana had not had a single episode in nearly three months. Derek had seen Spencer's wide-eyed disbelief and realized that for him, it was almost like having someone come back from the dead.

Diana Reid was lucid, yes, but she was also Diana Reid. She'd wanted to be released in that first month, but only many appeals to her logic and, ultimately, a compromise kept that rebellious spirit in check. She agreed that they would wait an additional two months, when they were closer to the three-month mark, to give the news to her son. She saw the logic in this, of course. The medication regimen could have become less effective with time; It had happened before. It seemed that was no longer a big concern, and she was getting frustrated with Spencer's reluctance to have her released so soon. So, she struck another compromise, this time with her son. Three months- Just another three months with little or, preferably, no episodes or complications and she would be a free woman. Miracle of miracles, she made it.

Derek wasn't there when Diana Reid waved goodbye to Bennington with a string of colorful archaic curses for the place that had been her home for the past nine years. He didn't understand half of what Spencer cheerily relayed but was pretty sure that Diana Reid would have found herself on the wrong side of a stoning back in the day. No one could blame her for the eagerness to start her new life. It had been so long since she'd had any real control over her life. Schizophrenia had been the jailor, the prison, and the chatty cellmate that kept her up nights. No one would say a word if she chose to express her distaste for the symbol of that imprisonment.

Though he had initially been afraid to hope for the best, Spencer kept himself busy making arrangements during the final three months of his mother's hospitalization. An apartment near UNLV was comparable in cost to Bennington, so it was no problem for Spencer to set Diana up there. She had protested at first but eventually gave in with the promise that she would pay back the money when she was able. Oddly enough, the deal breaker that Spencer proposed for Diana's release bothered him much more than it did her. He couldn't stay in Las Vegas, and visiting as often as he would need to wasn't possible with his unpredictable work schedule. There was simply no way that he was letting his mother out of Bennington without someone there to check in on her routinely. It needed to be someone she trusted, someone she knew. Someone nearby with a schedule that would allow for frequent visits. Unfortunately, the only person who fit the bill was the last person Spencer wanted to call.

Despite the resentment he held for the man, Spencer swallowed his pride for the sake of his mother. William Reid agreed to play social worker, and Diana didn't argue. She knew how much it had cost her son. It was a debt she could never hope to repay.

When Derek picked Spencer up from the airport four days after Diana's release, he immediately noticed that there was something different about his lover. Though he was visibly tired from the long flight and from days of helping his mother get settled in, there was a lightness about him that hadn't been there before. It was late that night as Derek was falling asleep with Spencer's head pillowed comfortably on his chest that he learned the reason for that change. The weight that Spencer had carried around for nine long years had dissipated with five small words: "You did the right thing". He wondered then if Spencer had inherited more than just his intelligence from his mother but also that incredible insight.

"She said I did the right thing." Spencer's breath was warm against his skin. "I never told her how guilty I felt, how it nearly killed me- How it was still killing me. She said, 'You did the right thing.' And then she asked me why I was so surprised. She said that she knew how the guilt was killing me. That a mother _always_ knows." The pure joy and relief in Spencer's laugh brought a smile to Derek's lips. "Then she hugged me and told me to let it go. Derek, I'm so happy to just let it go." Derek could feel the tears as they slipped from Spencer's face and onto his chest, but he said nothing. Instead, he let his actions speak as his arms held the slender body just a bit tighter than before. It was the best sleep either of them had in years.

Spencer continued to write to his mother every day. The letters weren't always as long or as detailed as they had been, but he always wrote something. It was a tradition that Diana enjoyed immensely, and she made sure to let him know that in each of her return letters. Her letters would arrive four a week, wax-sealed, black ink on a familiar cream parchment and never failed to brighten Spencer's day. In the coming weeks, they dwindled to two a week as life began to pick up again. Diana had classes to teach and was working on a book she had started writing before Spencer was born. Things were going well. Spencer was even growing closer to his father. He could never forgive the man for the damage that was done, but he respected the efforts that were being made now, or so he said. Derek knew that every phone call from William and every mention of him in Diana's letters was chipping away at the stone of resentment bit by bit.

The months flew by, faster than they could imagine, and it seemed another life for the sheer normalcy of it all. Six months and three loaded words spoken in a blissful haze threatened to stop the air in Derek's lungs. Spencer rested his head against a muscled thigh and, an eternity later, kissed his way back to the lips he had tasted 905 times. 906... 907... Spencer hadn't said it back, but Derek could wait. He knew he wasn't the only one counting.

Diana left UNLV after four months of teaching. According to her, she could make just as much money tutoring students who actually wanted to learn as she could _"…attempting to teach Romantic Literature to a bunch of over-privileged, underbred idiots who think that Stephenie Meyer is the new Proust." _It was only a part-time position. Besides, she missed Lydgate and Chaucer. A few weeks after that, the letters stopped. The calls from his father were the only thing stopping Spencer from boarding the next flight to Las Vegas.

It was been two weeks since the last letter from Diana, and Derek was trying desperately to occupy Spencer's mind with more pleasant thoughts. In a valiant effort to cheer up the increasingly despondent genius, he made a suggestion that he hoped he wouldn't regret. So there they sat on a sunny May morning waiting for the waitress to bring one large coffee to go along with the check. It was going to be a long afternoon- four and a half hours long, to be precise. A local community theater was featuring a noon showing of the director's cut of Return of the King, and 'luckily' they had the day off to see it.

Spencer had been getting increasingly excited the closer they got to Saturday, spouting off enough movie trivia that one would think he had lived on set for the 15 months, 3 weeks, and 4 days of production. Derek _really _wished he didn't know that, but it was worth every potentially brain tumor-inducing fact to see Spencer happy.

Though the line for the community theater wasn't enormous, there were still more people than Derek had anticipated. He looked around at the waiting movie-goers as Spencer bounced on his heels beside him.

"I'm just glad nobody's dressed like a hobbit."

Spencer turned a scolding glare on him, the effect of which was ruined instantly by the smile he so badly suppressed.

"Of course not. We only dress up for the big anniversaries. Remind me to show you my high elven robes later."

"Ooh… A little literary kink. I can go for that."

"Derek, you know that was a joke, right?"

"What? I thought you fanboys were all into role play."

A not-so-subtle cough from a patron behind them brought their attention back to the line, which had moved up a few places.

"Sorry," Spencer apologized as they moved ahead. He turned back to Derek.

"No more talk of perverting childhood hobbies."

"Childhood? Spencer, look around. Most of the guys who play those games _have_ kids. Or at least they're old enough to. I doubt if most of them have ever-"

"Derek. Please stop," Spencer pleaded, a hand placed over his face in embarrassment.

He took in the offended glares of the group ahead of them. Oops. He decided to shrug it off. Apologizing now would be like admitting that he was talking about them personally, which he wasn't. That group filed into the double doors, and Derek walked up to purchase two tickets. Tickets in hand, they entered the theater and were called to a stop at the ticket check.

"No outside food or drinks are allowed in the theater."

Spencer looked as if someone had told him to leave his baby in the car. Derek wasn't about to let some power-tripping usher ruin his Pretty Boy's day.

"Come on, man. We just dropped twenty bucks to see an eight year old movie, and you're telling me that we can't bring in a cup of coffee?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't make the rules."

"**Hey! Can we move it along already?" **Grumbles of annoyance came from behind.

Annoyed at the situation himself and not knowing what else to do, Derek pulled out his badge to flash his credentials. This only brought a smirk to the man's smug face.

"Unfortunately, twenty bucks and an FBI badge _won't _get you a cup of coffee these days."

Hoping to avoid an aggressively childish display, Spencer cleared his throat and pulled his own credentials.

"How about two FBI badges?" He asked, taking a sip of coffee out of pure defiance.

"I'm afraid not. Look, if you're not staying for the movie, please step aside for the other customers."

"**Yeah. **_**Today **_**please."**

They ignored the impatient protests.

"So, I can't have a cup of coffee in a theater, but I can have a gun?" Spencer asked, just a little louder than he normally would.

"G- Gun?" The man asked.

"Yeah. Did you think that they give us whistles?"

"Spencer, you brought your gun with you?"

"No. I left my gun at home because I knew that you'd have your gun. You did bring our gun didn't you?"

Derek almost burst out laughing when he noticed that Spencer was getting louder with each sentence.

"Yeah. Of course I brought my gun. You know I don't go anywhere without it."

"**Gun?" **There was a growing chorus of confused, half-panicked voices behind them.

"It's okay! Everyone calm down! There is _NO _gun!" The man projected over the lobby.

"Here," he snapped, ripping the tickets and shoving the stubs into Derek's hand. "Just go find a seat already."

Spencer tipped his cup in a mock toast.

"Thanks! Come on, Derek."

When they were safely out of earshot, Derek threw an arm around Spencer's shoulders and laughed.

"Pretty Boy, you are somethin' else."

"I know." Spencer beamed.

_**The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it. The way is **_**(beep-beep beep-beep)**

"Derek?"

"Must've forgot to put it on vibrate." Derek whispered back in the dark of the theater.

"Aren't you going to see who it is?"

"Nah. If it were important, you'd get a call too. Let's just finish the movie."

"Okay."

Spencer snuggled more comfortably against Derek's shoulder.

…_**An Elf will go underground when a dwarf dare not **_**(beep-beep beep-beep buzz-buzzzz)**

"Dammit!"

"**Shhh." **

"It's JJ," Spencer said, looking up from his phone as Derek did the same.

"Oh _Hell_ no! I did not just sit here for three hours-"

"**Shhh! Keep it down up th-"**

Derek turned in his seat, and the anger on his face was enough to silence the man behind him. Spencer laid a hand on a tense arm.

"Derek, we have to go."

Derek let out a heavy sigh.

"I know… But it's still not fair."

As they were exiting the theater, Spencer playfully bumped his shoulder against Derek's.

"Cheer up. You'd think you actually wanted to see the movie."

"You can get emotionally invested in anything after three hours."

"No, it's more than that. I think you were enjoying the movie. Admit it."

After returning JJ's call, they walked back to the SUV hand in hand, but before either could get inside, Derek spoke:

"The Sundering Seas between them lay,

And yet at last they met once more,

And long ago, they passed away,

In the forest singing sorrowless."

"That's from the Ballad of Beren and Tinúviel. How… Derek?"

"I said I didn't care for the movies."

The ride to Spencer's apartment was quiet for all of two minutes.

"Closet geek."

"Hey, if it gets me into your robes, I'll even learn a few words in Quenya."

"Oh. I never took you for a traditionalist. I prefer Sindarin. It flows better."

"I'm never gonna hear the end of this, am I?"

"Um… no. I don't think you will."

Derek groaned at the confirmation.

"Derek… Thanks. I really needed a day like this."

Derek's hand found Spencer's and lifted it to his lips for a brief kiss.

"Anytime, Pretty Boy. Anytime."

When they reached the apartments, Spencer jumped out of the vehicle as soon as it rolled to a stop. Turning back with an undecipherable look, he said very softly and very clearly,

"I love you". Then he rushed off to grab the go-bag that sat packed and ready by his front door. Knowing that it could be several days before he was home again, he quickly ran down to check his mail and was glad that he'd made the effort. Seeing that cream-colored, wax-sealed envelope lightened his heart like nothing else.

He showed the envelope to a still grinning Derek once he'd climbed back into the SUV and buckled up.

"What?" Spencer asked, wondering at the delirious expression on his face.

"Nothing. Just something someone told me."

The case took them to Houston, where a series of home invasion rapes had escalated to murder. It took them five days to find the Unsub only because the last victim had survived. The robberies were well-planned and the crime scenes meticulously cleaned, but even the most organized killer can make mistakes. He knew that Cherilyn Gardner lived alone. He didn't know that she had been a victim before or how hard she would fight to not be a victim again.

For so long it seemed to Derek that friends, family, and the simple joys were brief intermissions in the long and twisted nightmare that they called life. But that wasn't life. It was a job- an important and fulfilling job, but still only a job. Work was the interruption. Life was a phone call to his mother and sisters 'just because'. Life was a group of friends sitting around a dinner table talking and laughing like they haven't seen each other for years. Life was Spencer. Spencer burying his head beneath the covers, refusing to wake up. Spencer walking Clooney for the first time and looking like _he _

was the one being walked. Spencer breathless and undone and so fucking _perfect_, clinging to him like a lifeline, like the world was dissolving and they were the only thing left that was real.

He looked across the jet and caught Spencer's gaze. He smiled that secret smile that was only for him, always for him. Derek smiled back, watching Spencer remove a letter from his messenger bag- Diana's letter. He liked to read and answer them on the way home. It was cleansing, he said, to look forward to something good after all the bad. Derek closed his eyes and let his mind wander as the music playing over his headphones started to play. He didn't make it past the first verse of the song. A nudge to his shoulder prompted him to open his eyes and look up to see a grim-faced Rossi. He cut the music and removed the headphones.

"Hey. Somethin' up?"

Rossi didn't answer. He merely nodded toward the other side of the jet. Hotch stood still as a stone sentinel next to a kneeling JJ. He was clearly concerned, and he spoke quietly as JJ tried to coax a piece of paper from Spencer's hands. The young man's eyes were wide and unseeing, unable to blink back the steady stream of tears.

"Reid?" No response. He moved toward the man slowly, cautiously, panic flooding his veins like poison. "Reid?" He turned to his teammates for an explanation, but they were just as clueless as he was. "Spencer." He took JJ's place and tried to establish eye contact. What he saw in those haunted depths doubled his panic. His eyes were wide-open and unfocused, the pupils almost twice their normal size. His breaths were coming in short, shaky pants, and the letter he clutched shook in his trembling hands.

"Spencer," he spoke softly, knowing that he was unlikely to receive an answer. "I need you to give me the letter, alright?" He grasped the corners of the parchment and managed to pull it free after a few short tugs.

"What's it about?" Emily asked, but Derek was too occupied with re-reading the four lines of script. When he had read it a second time, he passed the letter to Hotch and sank into the seat next to Spencer's. He brought his arms around the unresisting body and drew it close to his own while the same words played over and over in both of their heads:

"_With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,_

_And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;_

_And this was all the Harvest that I reaped-_

'_I came like Water, and like Wind I go.'"_

Hotch made the necessary calls to Las Vegas when they got back to Quantico. It wasn't a conversation for the jet. Not when Spencer was finally asleep, exhausted and cried-out in his lover's arms. This wasn't the way Derek had wanted to confirm their team's suspicions about them, but none of that mattered now. What mattered now was the empty shell that had hung like forgotten laundry for eight days in a Las Vegas apartment. What mattered were the broken promises of a man who had kept the one promise he should never have made. What mattered was Spencer's voice, angry and pitiless, forbidding William Reid from attending the funeral- lifeless and dull as he begged Derek to stay behind.

So Derek stayed. With every reserve of strength within him, he forced himself to watch Spencer board that plane alone. There was nothing else he could do, nothing except wait. And here he was, still waiting. Spencer had been home for two weeks now, but Derek wondered if he would ever truly be back.

The state of Spencer's apartment was understandable given the circumstances. Derek had done what he could in the short time he'd allotted himself before Spencer woke up. That the troubled man had tolerated another person's presence for an entire afternoon was a minor miracle. He had hope, of course. It was usually a mistake to bet against Spencer Reid. That didn't stop the worry, though. He wondered if Spencer was sleeping, whether he was eating. Was he allowing himself to mourn? Would he ever call? Derek really wished he would just call.

As if in answer to that silent prayer, the ringing of the phone broke Derek from his silent musings. Standing out in stark contrast against the sickly green backlighting was a phone number Derek had hoped to never see, and he was reminded of why his faith was so shaky. Taking a calming breath, he picked up the call, a voice coming over the line before he could even speak.

"_**Agent Morgan…"**_

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Notes: Yeah, I know it seems like poor Spencer's been on that bathroom floor for a long time, but really, time can get kind of skewed, can't it? What do you say we learn a bit more about just what put him on that floor? Could be interesting. **

**Just so there's no confusion, everything that's not bolded is in flashback / memory. There was too much to bold or italicize it all. **

**Also, I apologize if anyone who has this story on their Alerts has gotten more than one alert on this or any other chapter. Sometimes a mistake is too glaring, and sometimes a chapter just doesn't want to post correctly.**

**Okay. Here we go…**

Chapter 8

"_**It is an interesting thing, denial. Knowing you are in it doesn't get you out of it."**_

**She walked slowly to Spencer and knelt down in front of him. Reaching out a hesitant hand, she carded her fingers through his hair and said in a near whisper, "There is a sacredness in tears. They are not a mark of weakness, but of power." She looked away nervously for a second before returning her gaze to Spencer's. The silent exchange that passed between the two was not unnoticed by the man who continued to occupy the doorway.**

"**So, what do you think? Can he handle this?"**

**She nodded slightly, never breaking eye contact with the exhausted young man lying on the floor. Spencer closed his eyes and breathed deeply, gathering every ounce of courage he possessed, and croaked in a weary voice, "I'm ready."**

"**Are you sure, Doc? You of all people can't **_**unknow **_**something. Hell, even I'm starting to think we should wait to do this another day."**

**The woman's fingers continued their soothing movements as she said quietly and earnestly, "People only see what they are prepared to see." Knowing how feeble a reassuring word from himself would sound, Spencer continued to meet her gaze and nodded into her hand.**

"I can't believe that I was stupid enough to trust you."

"Please… Just let me explain."

"Explain? What kind of explanation could you possibly have for this? You didn't forget to pick me up for school. You… I can't- I can't even talk to you right now. You need to leave."

"Spencer, please. I took a redeye from Vegas as soon as I got the call. I want to be here for you, son."

"Don't call me 'son'. You lost that right a long time ago."

"Spencer, what's goin' on?"

They both turned to the half-dressed man emerging from the hallway. The sleep-hazed eyes cleared considerably when he saw that they had company.

"Mr. Reid." He nodded.

"Oh. I uh… I had no idea that you- I mean, Spencer didn't tell me…" He trailed uncertainly. "You want an introduction? Fine. Derek, I believe you've met the sperm donor involved in my conception. William Reid, meet Derek Morgan, the man I'm currently fucking."

"Spencer!" Derek exclaimed, not believing the words that he was hearing as the genius continued to rant.

"I realize that no one's mentioned our relationship in the press, and you couldn't Google it, so it's understandable if you're surprised."

"Spencer. That's enough." Derek reigned in his own sharp tone. He placed a staying hand on his lover's arm. "Don't do this. He's still your father."

"He is _not _my father!" Spencer shouted, throwing Derek's hand off. He turned back to William Reid.

"You have never been anything close to what a father should be. Everything that is good about who I am came from _her_. You are an unfortunate waste of genetic material. I wish that I could _cut _you out of me." Spencer gave a bitter, scornful laugh. "Are those tears? 'Men don't cry.' Remember? I guess your ten-year-old freak of a son was more of a man then than you are now. Get. Out. Of my. Home."

William shook his head, trying desperately to regain composure.

"No. I'm not leaving until you hear me out."

"The hell you aren't…" Spencer muttered, storming away angrily.

Derek caught the glimmer of Reid's revolver being pulled from where it had been tossed in the drawer of the foyer table. He nearly slammed the drawer on a thin wrist in his haste to prevent the unthinkable.

"What the hell do you think you're doin'?" He asked, his heart pounding in his throat. "Calm down!" He held the struggling man tightly against his chest, Spencer's arms crossed like a mummy's and trapped by Derek's. The gun lay innocently in the open drawer. He addressed the older man. "If you have something you need to say, I suggest you say it and leave."

William looked in shock from Morgan to Spencer to the gun and back to Spencer, whose eyes held nothing short of murderous intent.

"Diana made me promise not to tell you, Spencer."

The struggles were dying down.

"I did check in on her like I said I would, every other day for almost a month at first. I may not have gone as often as that after a while, but I never went more than a few days without checking in. She was better, Spencer. She was so much better than she had been. She _wanted_ to get well this time. That was always the problem- getting her to agree to get help, to stay on her medication. She was better, Spencer, I swear it. She just… She resented it after a while. She said that she felt like a child. Or like she was still locked away. We started having arguments about it. It just got worse and worse until, one day, she told me to stay away."

"And you _listened_?" Spencer snarled.

"She was _better_."

"Yes. Obviously. Why didn't you tell me? I could have sent someone competent to check on her. I could have gone myself."

"She made me promise not to tell you. She said that we owed it to you to let you have your life back. That you'd spent virtually your whole life taking care of her and… And cleaning up my mistakes." He closed his eyes in shame. "God help me, I agreed. You deserved your own life."

"How long?"

"How long, what?"

"How long was my mother left alone? When did you last see her?"

"It was about a week before she started tutoring."

"Six weeks," Spencer whispered. "Do you have any idea what can happen in six weeks? I guess you do now.." He trailed brokenly, no longer possessing the energy to rave.

"She probably spent the last six weeks of her life alone. And I trusted you… Why did I trust you?"

He met William's eyes, and all the man could see was that ten-year-old boy asking "Why?" as he turned his back and continued to pack his belongings. He didn't stand a chance in Hell of staying composed after that. Then he saw the realization hit as those eyes that were so much more like his own than Diana's narrowed.

"Six weeks ago… You've called me five times since then. You told me that she was fine. You let me believe that you had seen her. You _lied_ to me. Why would you lie to me? Why not just wait for my calls and give me a minimum amount of information? It doesn't make sense. I don't understand."

It was William's turn to look at his son incredulously.

"You don't understand? Spencer, I wanted to talk to you. We were finally talking like I've wished we could do for years. I was getting my son back. I didn't want that to end. You can understand that, can't you? Spencer?"

The young man's eyes were void of anything recognizable, and he was limp and loosely held in the larger man's arms.

"You lied to me… Over and over…"

The words were barely audible. "And all the time… And all the time she was alone."

"Spencer, pl-"

"Don't. Just leave. I don't ever want to see you again. Both of my parents are dead."

"I think it's time for you left, Mr. Reid."

"Is he- Is he going to be alright?" he asked, troubled by the increasingly vacant eyes.

"I'll take care of him."

William looked like he would say more, but eventually, he nodded.

"Thank you."

And with that, he did what he'd always done best.

A traditional funeral was out of the question. The last thing he wanted- that his mother would have wanted was a random assortment of distant relatives and obligated former colleagues speaking empty words over an empty vessel. Funerals weren't really for the dead, after all. It was the living who took comfort in the ritual. There would be no comfort for Spencer. His mother was gone. Undeniably, irrevocably gone. He was the only one who had been there for her when she was alive. Where were all the well-wishers then?

_Let them console each other._

He'd thought of cremation. It was a perfectly valid choice. It was simple, efficient, even poetic in a way. It also felt like destroying evidence. No. He would bury her and try hard not to equate that action with remorse.

"I'm here, mom. I don't really believe that you can hear me or that you have any form of awareness in your current state, but I need to say this."

He looked around the quiet cemetery, struggling to snatch coherent words from the torrent of thoughts and memories that bombarded him. The surrounding headstones drew his attention, and names, dates, and epitaphs were added to the catalogue of things that his mind would never let him forget.

"I'm not angry with you. I wish that I could have seen you one last time. I wish that you had told me, told _someone_ what you were going through. What were you going through? I don't know why this had to happen. I suppose it didn't have to, did it? If I had taken better care of you… If I hadn't left, would you still be alive? Or was it _because _of me? Were you so afraid that I would see what was happening and have you committed a second time? Or maybe… Maybe it's like _he _said. That you wanted me to have my own life. Well, guess what, Mom? I do have my own life. I have a successful career and dedicated friends and someone who loves me more than I thought anyone ever would. And you will never see that. I got to see you truly happy for the first time in my life, but you didn't give me the chance to show you that _I _was happy. That you hadn't ruined my life. And you know what? I _am _angry with you, Mom. I am so angry that you'll never fly out to visit me on holidays. That you'll never see me accept my Philosophy degree. I really thought you were going to make it to _one _ graduation ceremony. You'll never haul out baby pictures to embarrass me in front of my friends. Or interrogate my boyfriend. Or threaten to scratch his eyes out if he ever hurts me."

He laughed, scrubbing angry tears away from his eyes. How one person could feel so many emotions at once was beyond him. The anger and sorrow, the longing and despair overwhelmed him to the point of numbness. To the point where the only thing left was the old familiar friend- guilt.

William Reid had let them down. That was nothing new. The doctors had been confident in the treatment. Doctors were often overconfident. At the end of the day, it had been _his_ decision. That single thought was a stone weight attached to his soul, and in this moment, he knew that it would drag him to the depths if he let it. Yet he couldn't find the will to cut away. He was tethered, rooted to this little patch of overturned earth. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Because there was nothing left to say.

The sun was sinking low in the Las Vegas sky. The lights of the city that dazzled and enticed people the world over to come out and play would soon illuminate the night sky. But not here. They were far enough outside of the city proper that he could almost forget that this was Las Vegas. It was quiet. So quiet that he could hear the low grate of loose sand blown across stone. He had never known that kind of quiet existed. The world had stopped. Time itself had paused to bow its head in silent acknowledgement of this moment.

But time hadn't stopped. The sun sank lower still, cloaking the cemetery in the soft glow of twilight. It was time to leave. Kneeling down, mindless of the dirt that caked the knees of his pants, he ran his fingers through the freshly turned earth. It was softer than he would have thought, much closer to soil than sand. Maybe they had imported it.

_Or maybe this is an oasis for the dead._

As if in a trance, he removed a Ziploc from his messenger bag and scooped a handful of the grave soil into the plastic bag. 'A token,' he thought absently but couldn't bring himself to rationalize his actions. He put the small bag away and began to smooth the indention left when he'd taken his memento. "I'm sorry." He closed his eyes and tried not to let this be the last image that he saw here. "I have to go now, Mom. I promise to visit the next time I'm in town. I always do."

A gentle touch to his shoulder and Spencer had his revolver in hand before he even had time to think.

"Put the gun away, Dr. Reid. This is hardly the time or place for violence."

Spencer's eyes darted from the man approaching casually though the nearby gate to the frightened young woman standing before him. Her hands were held up in a position of surrender, and she hadn't dared to speak a word.

"Dr. Reid," the man called, growing nearer, "unless you have one hell of a case of allergies, she's not going to kill you with larkspur."

Sure enough, he glanced at the raised hands and clutched there were three bunches of flowers. In her left hand, she held two small bouquets of lavender hued delphinium and white jasmine. In her right, a single bright orange poppy was tucked into several stems of blue larkspur. He lowered the gun, and the man nodded and walked to the other side of Diana's grave. Spencer stared at him as he stared down at the earth and stone. He waited for the man to say something else, to explain his presence, but there was only silence. Until…

"You know, I think the young lady's arm might be getting a bit tired."

"What do you- Oh." He had nearly forgotten the man's companion. She must have been trying to get his attention for quite some time. The three bunches of flowers were now in her left hand, which she held close to her chest. Her right hand was raised and extended to him, offering up the single poppy. He accepted the gift hesitantly, wondering at the meaning behind the gesture. "Thank you." The smile that she gave in reply was sad but genuine, and she moved to join the other man, across from Spencer.

The who's and why's were on the tip of his tongue when the man laid a hand on the dark gray stone, closed his eyes, and took a breath. Of all the things that Spencer had expected to hear, this was not one.

"_Hello darkness, my old friend_

_I've come to talk with you again…"_

It was his mother's favorite song. He could remember hearing the muffled music drifting throughout the house from behind her closed bedroom door on bad days and her singing along with the melodic tune as she cooked and cleaned on good days. The man's voice was a rich, smooth baritone that reminded him of something heavy yet soft. It was like slipping beneath a thick comforter on a cold night.

The woman moved forward, her gauzy white skirt dragging through the dust as she knelt. Next to the white roses, half-wilted from long hours in the sun, she placed her own flowers, one by one. She took up the song, her voice melding with the other like water.

"_In restless dreams I walked alone Narrow streets of cobblestone…" _

The high, sweet notes rose and fell, working in perfect counter and harmony with the deeper tones. The bittersweet dance of the two voices continued as she laid first the delphinium, then the jasmine, and finally, the larkspur. Spencer glanced down at the lone poppy in his hand, wondering if he should do the same.

It occurred to him then that the flower was meant solely for him. He was never one for purchasing or giving flowers, so the spray of white roses that adorned Diana's grave were chosen for simple aesthetics. He hadn't really given any thought to the meaning behind them. Spencer looked at the heat-stricken white roses, a tiny smile pulling at the corners of his lips. _I think that Mom would take personal offense at being called 'innocent and pure'. _Delphiniums symbolized boldness. That was certainly more fitting.

In so many ways that the world at large would never witness, Diana Reid was both graceful and elegant. His earliest memories were of being completely mesmerized as she held court in the book-lined living room, reciting Chaucer to him when most children his age could barely comprehend Dr. Seuss. He hadn't grasped every reference and nuance, but she held his attention nonetheless. Yes- Jasmine was another fitting choice.

Larkspur. The last stem of Diana's favorite flower was laid as the final note of her favorite song faded. Spencer was glad that the woman laid this flower last, for above all else, his mother was and always would be a 'beautiful spirit'. "Thank you," he whispered into the silence. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of fresh earth and jasmine and rose. He was breathing life."Thank you," he repeated, opening his eyes to look across at… No one.

Spencer looked around, hoping to spot the two before they could leave the cemetery- before he lost the chance to ask the questions that were burning in his mind. But they were gone, leaving not so much as footprints as evidence of their presence. All that was left of them was a mismatched assortment of cut flowers intermingled with white roses, the echoes of a song, and an unbelievable sense of what the blossom in his hand was meant to represent: Consolation.

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	9. Chapter 9

With a strength of will that would surprise no one more than the young doctor himself, Spencer uncurled his lanky body and rose from the floor. He rinsed his mouth with warm water, followed by mouthwash, glancing occasionally into the mirror at the figures behind him. Brushing past them, he made his way to the bedroom and settled in the middle of the bed, back against the headboard and knees encircled by his arms.

"Are you okay now, Doc?"

Spencer cocked his head, looking at the man suspiciously.

"You haven't been particularly concerned with my emotional state up to this point. Why the sudden change?"

The man held up his hands.

"Hey- I'm only looking out for your wellbeing," he smirked. "Besides, if you go catatonic on me, I'll be left alone with _that_." He jerked his thumb toward his female companion, who drawled with a smirk of her own:

"I weep for you. I deeply sympathize."

Growing accustomed to the back and forth bickering of the two, Spencer cracked a smile.

"I think that prospect is as equally unpleasant for her."

"Come on… Who wouldn't want to spend a virtual eternity locked in limbo with me? I believe some cultures consider that Paradise."

None of them could resist a laugh at this.

"And you called _Derek _cocky."

"I made you laugh, which was my goal. Think of me what you will."

The laughter died in Spencer's throat, the sound of its abrupt end, causing the others to go silent as well.

"This… This isn't normal, is it? I mean, I'm sitting here having a conversation with- with…" Spencer trailed uselessly.

"Yes? Go on."

He looked to the man, startled out of his reverie.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't want you to _say _anything. I want you to ask the right questions."

Spencer shook his head, at a loss.

"How am I supposed to know what the right questions are? I don't even _know _what I already know. I'm seriously questioning the wisdom in finding out more."

The man stepped forward, hesitating a moment before sitting down on the side of the bed, his body angled toward Spencer.

"Sometimes, it's better to start with what you don't know."

"That's what I just said. I don't-"

"No. You're listening, but you're not hearing what I'm saying. What don't you know?"

Spencer ran a hand through his disheveled curls, tugging at them in frustration.

"There's plenty I don't know right now, and that's saying a lot."

The man leaned closer.

"The basics, Dr. Reid. You can't build a house without a foundation.."

"Build a house? I don't…"

"The _basics_."

When the thought suddenly struck him, Spencer felt what he would admit was probably a disproportionate sense of accomplishment. Like solving his first Rubik's cube, the answer was so easy, so simplistic that he could have kicked himself for taking longer than five minutes. He looked from one figure to the other, his gaze lingering on the woman, who had kept silent for so long.

For the first time, he noticed that though he had spent hours on end in their presence, he could not describe with any detail the appearance of either. There were voices and silhouettes, flashes of color. An odd, almost tangible impression of emotions helped to decipher their words and actions, but not a single defining feature had ever been discerned.

"Why can't I see you?" he asked with a kind of quiet awe. He asked in the manner of a child asking whether or not faeries are real. The woman inhaled sharply, moving closer slowly until she occupied the other side of the bed. Spencer never took his eyes off of her.

"The basics, Doc," came the encouraging, urgent whisper.

"What is your name?"

A slow smile spread across the woman's radiant face. He knew that she was smiling, not because of a press of emotion against some deeply buried area of his mind but because he could _see_ it.

"Who is Silvia? What is she that all our swains commend her?"

Her fine, delicately sculpted face showed traces of amusement and delight. Her lustrous dark hair was a brown so deep that it was nearly black and fell impossibly long to the small of her back. She was petite and fine-boned, pale as porcelain. It was like looking at a living doll.

"'Holy, fair, and wise is she. The heavens such grace did lend her, that she might admired be.' You're… beautiful."

Her smile grew brighter still, blue eyes alight with happiness. He gave a short, nearly hysterical bark of laughter.

"Silvia? Your name is Silvia?"

She nodded enthusiastically. Spencer turned to the man who had stood to lean against the far wall as he watched the exchange.

"Oh, don't mind me. I'm perfectly fine being left out of a discussion that _I_ started."

"So…?" Spencer prompted.

The man uncrossed his arms with a huff.

"Go ahead and ask."

Through barely suppressed laughter, Spencer asked.

"What's your name?"

He was obviously quite a bit older than Silvia, who looked barely out of her teens. His dark ash blonde hair was cropped short and lightly flecked with gray. He stood a couple of inches taller than Spencer but with a musculature that was infinitely more well-defined that his own. The green-gray eyes that met his were hard but with a hint of hidden kindness.

"Gabriel. It's nice to finally meet you, Spencer Reid."

An uneasy feeling began to creep its way over Spencer's skin.

"Gabriel: Of Hebrew origin, meaning 'man of God' or 'God's able-bodied one', depending on the translation."

"My name makes you uncomfortable."

"Whah- huh? Why would your um… _name _make me uncomfortable? It's a- a nice name with a long, traditional history. In fact-"

Gabriel held up a deeply tanned hand.

"Please stop. I don't need a lesson on this, Doc. And there's no need to be polite. I hate the name as much as you do."

Spencer closed his mouth with an audible snap, opened, and closed it again.

"Just ask the question already."

"Why do you hate your name?"

He pushed off from the wall, pinning Spencer with a knowing glare.

"It's a bit close, isn't it? Do you think I enjoy being a constant reminder of one of the worst times in your life?"

"I- I'm sorry."

"Don't 'sorry' me. Quit indulging in emotional masochism. If you hate the damned name so much, change it!"

"Change it? You want _me_ to change _your_ name?"

"Why not? It's not like I had a say in it the first time around."

Spencer swung his legs over the side of the bed, watching as the taller man stalked the room with a fierce scowl.

"Wait a minute. I named you?"

The angry steps faltered, and he turned cold eyes on the baffled genius.

"Maybe intelligence _can't _be accurately quantified," he mumbled. "Yes, _Doctor _Spencer Reid, certified genius with a documented I.Q. of 187, holder of multiple degrees, including a B.A. in _Psychology _of all subjects, has come to the brilliant and earth-shattering conclusion that his delusion DIDN'T. NAME. _ITSELF_. My _God- _what are they teaching them these days?"

Silvia stood and moved to a position where she could quickly come between the two if it were necessary. Spencer had stood as well and was facing a now red-faced Gabriel.

"How could I have given you a name that I didn't even know five minutes ago? I didn't know you two _existed_ until quite recently."

Silvia placed her slender hands on the chests of both men and pleaded, "Don't fight a battle if you don't gain anything by winning."

"It's okay, Silvia. We're not going to fight," Spencer said at the same time that Gabriel shoved her away and spat, "Stay out of it, Silvia."

"Hey! Don't treat her that way. She has just as much right to be a part of this conversation as we do."

"As _I_ do."

"You may be the most arrogant person I've ever met."

"Once again, _Doctor_ Reid, you're listening, but you're not hearing what I'm saying. There is no 'we'. There is only 'I'. _'We' _don't exist!"

A quiet sniffle stopped Spencer's next words and drew his attention to the distraught young woman who was backing away, arms wrapped securely around herself.

"Silvia?" he questioned tentatively.

She shook her head, setting tears loose over her pale cheeks, and murmured distractedly, "The skin of my face- pinch the cheeks. My flaming sword tongue spraying verbal fire-flys." Her head snapped up, meeting Spencer's eyes with panic in her own. Her voice came out small and laden with desperation. "I'm real. I'm human."

When she didn't find the affirmation she was seeking in Spencer, she turned to face Gabriel. He scoffed disdainfully, and the bitterness in his tone was lessened only slightly by the trace of sympathy in his eyes.

"Say that in prose."

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	10. Chapter 10

It took Spencer approximately 26 seconds to realize how much he hated to see a woman cry. It took him four minutes of awkward and failed attempts at comforting to remember that Silvia wasn't _really_ a woman. And ten minutes after that, he realized that it didn't really matter. The heart wrenching cries of despair were real enough for him. In fact, they were real enough to drive him from the apartment that he hadn't left in nearly a week.

_Leave it to me to have delusions that have managed to delude __**themselves**__._

That wasn't entirely true. Gabriel, at least, seemed to have a firm grasp of the situation, even if he could be incredibly insensitive with the information at times. Calling out Silvia's fears like that was completely uncalled for, and the man _had_ to know that. Spencer had seen the crack in the façade- how the timbre of his voice had wavered just a notch, and his cold eyes had held a trace of sympathy as he struck the final blow. He was convinced that Gabriel's words were said out of concern and were what he had felt was necessary to get through to Silvia. A sort of tough love. Still, the ruthlessness of the confrontation and subsequent emotional meltdown left a bad taste in his mouth. Just what had made the man so callous? Maybe…

'Maybe I should stop trying to profile my hallucinations', Spencer thought with a deep-set scowl as he locked up the apartment. Silvia's wails were muffled by the heavy door. He adjusted his messenger bag to rest firmly against his hip and noted the difference in weight of his go-bag, crammed with a couple of extra sets of clothing. As he made his way down the hall, a door opened close behind, and Spencer stopped in his tracks.

Surely they wouldn't follow him. He knew that it was entirely unrealistic to hope that they would remain behind the closed door of his one-bedroom apartment forever, but they had never followed him from the apartment before.

"Dr. Reid?"

He sighed in relief and turned to address the woman.

"Mrs. Leichtner," he greeted with a friendly wave, "How are you tonight?"

She seemed to study him for a moment, her keen, dark eyes as sharp now as they ever were in her youth.

"I have asked you repeatedly to call me Christine," she said.

Spencer forced himself to maintain his usual demeanor. It wasn't difficult to paint on a lopsided grin, to throw in a few shy nods of the head and shuffling of feet. This was their routine, after all. And he would need the safety of routine in the coming days.

"Yes ma'am. And I've asked you on numerous occasions to call me Spencer."

Her gray head tilted in consideration, her usual easy smile just a bit tight at the corners.

"Nonsense. With all of that education, it seems a pity to address you in such a pedestrian manner."

"And so you remain 'Mrs. Leichtner'," he laughed.

"I suppose I must."

Spencer could see that he wasn't the only one playing a part here. Everything about the woman was screaming unease.

"Is everything alright, Mrs. Leichtner? Can I help you with something?"

She shifted in the doorway, her eyes darting quickly down the hall behind him.

"Of course, dear. Everything's perfectly fine. I was just wondering where you were headed at this hour. It's a bit late for you, isn't it?"

_Well, __**that**__ was odd._

She knew that he didn't typically leave the apartment at this time of night unless he was called in on a case. Why she didn't assume that was the situation, given that he had both of his bags with him, was beyond him.

"I thought I'd take a walk. I couldn't sleep."

"Yes, I suppose it would be difficult for you. To sleep," she quickly amended at Spencer's puzzled look. "I wonder how anyone who sees the things that you see can ever get a decent night's sleep. It's not good for the soul."

It was a speech that he'd heard many times before, but she had given up the argument years ago when she saw that he had no intention of leaving the B.A.U. So, why was she broaching the subject in the hallway between their apartments at- he looked at his watch- 12:13AM?

"It's a bit late for _both_ of us, Mrs. Leichtner, so I won't keep you any longer. Goodnight."

"Wait!" she called, moving away from her open door and closer to the retreating man. "You said yourself that you couldn't sleep, and obviously, I'm in the same predicament. Won't you come in for a cup of tea? I have a new blend that you really must try."

"That's really very tempting, but I-"

"How about a game of chess?" she interrupted. "It's been too long since we last played."

There it was again- that shifting of eyes from the man in front of her to the hallway behind him.

_What is going on here?_

"Mrs. Leichtner, are you sure that everything's alright? You seem distrac-"

"Oh, don't worry about me, dear," she said happily. The tension had suddenly disappeared and in its place was the usual calm and easy smile. "I think you have company. We can have that match some other time. Goodnight, Dr. Reid."

She looked over his shoulder once more and nodded.

"Agent Morgan."

"Christine."

Spencer turned at the friendly greeting.

"Derek?"

He heard a door latch and a couple of locks slipping into place. Mrs. Leichtner had gone back into her apartment.

"Spencer."

There was more than a hint of amusement in the tone of his voice. It was almost too light, too jovial to be genuine.

"Derek, what are you doing here?"

"Are you gonna ask me that every time I visit?"

"No, I- Derek, it's late."

"It's barely midnight."

"12:15AM. And you have to work today."

"I do. You, however, do not. What's with the Go Bag?"

He had made it a light question, something asked out of casual curiosity, but Spencer knew that he'd been profiling everything from the moment he'd arrived. There was no way that he would get away with an outright lie under that kind of scrutiny. But then, the most convincing lies always had some element of truth to them.

"I needed to get away for a few hours. I thought I'd rent a room somewhere and spend the night."

Derek abandoned all pretenses of not profiling the man in front of him, his gaze intense and heavy as it took in every detail. Spencer almost expected to be asked to roll up his sleeves and empty his bags onto the floor.

_Why did I have to phrase it like that?_

"Why don't we go inside and talk about it?" Derek offered, relieving Spencer of his Go Bag. He hefted it a little.

"One night, huh?"

"I didn't ask you to carry it."

"And I'm not complaining. After you," he gestured toward the locked door.

Spencer stared at the dark wood, only vaguely aware of the gentle hand on his arm and the soft, questioning repetition of his name. He was too busy listening to Gabriel lose control of his firm, even voice as he abandoned trying to reason with Silvia for screaming at the top of his lungs for the crying to stop.

_He really does have a temper._

A shrill scream of rage was followed by the sound of something fairly heavy and fragile smashing against a wall.

_Apparently, so does she._

Gabriel yelped almost comically while Silvia resumed sobbing.

_I can't go in there right now. It's a madhouse._

But then, maybe he should make sure that they were alright. Silvia was still extremely upset; Gabriel had likely just had something hurled at him, and with his acerbic tongue, it probably wouldn't be the last time it happened tonight.

_The place is going to be a mess when I get back._

Spencer wondered what he'd heard shatter. He really hoped that it wasn't the vase that he'd made for his mother as an Art assignment when he was eleven. As imperfect as it had been, she'd kept it all these years.

"Oh, God," he said aloud, face white as a sheet, hands beginning to shake.

"Spencer?" Derek's voice was cutting in and out.

"Spencer… Baby, what's wrong?"

He tried to focus on his lover's voice. He tried to ignore the shouts and wails coming from the other side of the door. Above all, he tried with all his might not to drown in the questions that were now flooding his mind with the murky waters of irrationality.

What had Silvia broken? He'd heard the noise and had recognized it as the sound of an object shattering. Had his mind just made it up, thought to ad lib a sound effect to the drama taking place? Or were there really shards of glass that he would have to clean up later? He hoped that the former was the case. He really, really hoped that was the case. Because if it wasn't, if there _was _broken glass littering the floor just a few feet away from where he stood, he had to have broken it himself.

"_**There is no 'we'. There is only 'I'."**_

_But I was standing right here when I heard it break. I was standing __**right here**__, next to Derek. He didn't hear it, did he? Oh, God… I can't go back in there. I can't go back in there…"_

"I can't go back in there."

"Shh… It's okay, Spencer. You don't have to."

"I can't go back in there."

"I know."

There were strong arms around him. Strong, and warm, and safe.

_And real._

"Come on, Pretty Boy. I'm taking you home with me."

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	11. Chapter 11

****Author's Notes: Phew… I didn't make myself a liar after all. If you've been to my profile page to check to see if I was still alive, you probably saw that I'd planned to update today. So, yeah. Here's the next chapter that Real Life just did not want to be born into existence. It was a bit of a breech birth, but here it is nonetheless. I hope you enjoy it. **

**Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, and/or favorited this story. Feedback is always appreciated, and serves as a great inspiration to the writing process. ** **

*****Disclaimers in Chapter 1*****

"You wanna talk about it?" Derek asked, tossing an extra blanket onto the bed. With his back turned, the silent headshake that served as a reply went unnoticed. He turned around after smoothing out the blankets, catching sight of his young lover standing with his back against the wall, near the bedroom door. His eyes were downcast, arms folded across his chest. If Derek didn't know any better, he would say that the man was… _afraid_. He looked ready to flee the room.

"Okay," he said, sitting down on the end of the bed. "We don't have to talk about it right now."

A quick nod, eyes still burning holes into the carpet.

"You know, the bed's a lot more comfortable."

Another nod.

"Spencer, what-"

His tone was sharper than he had intended, and the resultant flinch compelled him into silence. He ran a hand over his tired eyes, glancing at the alarm clock on the bedside table. 1:27AM. It was going to be a long day.

"Okay. I said we didn't have to talk about it. I'm sorry. Let's just go to bed."

'Another damned nod,' he thought, slipping between the sheets and turning down Spencer's side in invitation.

It had been like this for the last hour. After absolutely refusing to enter his own apartment, Spencer had gone strangely silent. He'd spent the 20 minute drive to Derek's house sitting rigidly and staring straight ahead- for the most part. Occasionally, his breathing would quicken, eyes darting to search the darkness before them and then the road behind them through the rearview mirror. Then, his left hand would shoot from where it rested in his lap to grasp the driver's right hand. It was a sharp move, jerky and uncoordinated- Panicked. It was as if he were trying to confirm that the man was still there. Derek would return the light squeeze of his fingers and feel the slender digits slip hastily away. The one time that he initiated the move himself, Spencer startled so badly that he didn't dare attempt it again.

The same went for conversation. He was obviously getting nothing out of his boyfriend anytime soon, and pushing him to talk only put him more on edge. Derek didn't know what had happened tonight, but he knew that the confined space of a moving vehicle was no place to ask. Not when Spencer was already looking so trapped.

The communications didn't exactly improve after they'd reached their destination. Spencer did offer a quiet 'thanks' as the passenger side door was opened and the bags that he had reached to grab were gently taken from his hands. After that, he went silent again. Without a word, he moved into the bathroom adjacent to the master bedroom to take a much-needed shower and to brush his teeth.

The thin, oversized pajamas that Derek had teased him about during countless cases hung from his shoulders and hips. It was clear that Spencer hadn't been eating as well as Derek would have liked. These past weeks had been hard on him. That he would need some encouragement to focus on his own physical wellbeing was a given. But the few missing pounds of already near-nonexistent body fat would be regained eventually. That wasn't what brought a frown to the older man's face.

He hadn't seen those pajamas in months. In fact, it was rare for Spencer to wear _anything_ to bed when he was at home. And this had become a second home to him, just as his apartment had become a second home to Derek. Even on the night that he received the letter that brought his world crashing down around him, he had allowed his boyfriend to undress him, and they'd laid naked and sleepless in each other's arms for many troubled hours.

Behind bedroom doors, he was comfortable in his own skin and confident in ways that most would never expect of the shy young genius. Derek certainly hadn't expected it. So many times he'd had to bite his tongue to keep from blurting the words 'Where did you learn _that_?' So many times he'd pondered that question and channeled jealousy and possessiveness into overwhelming passion. With lips and tongue and heated flesh, he sought to drive out all memory of another's touch from the body beneath him. On those occasions, Spencer would look up with hazel eyes full of love and just a hint of mischief, the corners of his kiss-bruised lips pulled into a knowing smirk as he submitted himself fully.

Derek was sure that it was punishment for years of inspiring the same frustration in the other man. He was sure that each cycle of playful challenge and willing submission was a message spoken far more clearly than words could ever achieve.

'_Now you know'_ The quirk of his lips.

'_Every damn time'_ The glint in his eyes.

And Derek_ did_ know. He knew now, with sickening clarity, how Spencer had felt every time he saw the man he loved walk out the door with some woman he barely knew. At least, he knew in theory. Fortunately, he'd never had to watch. As far as he was concerned, a theoretical knowledge was more than sufficient. Just the thought that another man ever been gifted with that level of trust- had held him, touched him, tasted him… He could never even finish that_ thought_ without some small, primitive part of his brain threatening to completely take over and show him just how 'evolved' his species really was.

He knew it was hypocritical. He knew that if they were keeping score, he would be forced to rationalize that Spencer had far more right to feel this way. But they weren't keeping score. They never would. He would never allow that question to slip past his lips. He would bite his tongue every time if he had to. It wasn't allowed- that line of questioning.

"_Past lovers have no business in our bed,"_ Spencer had stated when he'd laid down that particular rule. At first, Derek thought that it was a way of leveling the playing field, so to speak, but the next words out of Spencer's mouth stopped the playful retort before it had fully formed.

"_It's just you and me now, Derek. No past, no future- only each other, here and now. For as long as you want this, it's just you and me."_

The look in his eyes was so earnest and sincere, his voice filled with such solemn truth that Derek just _knew_. It wasn't about avoiding arguments and petty jealousies. It wasn't about embarrassment and fear of inadequacy. It wasn't even about 'past lovers', as he had called them. It was about burying the past- a past that had been dug up once before. A past that Derek would rather not have surface again. There was no past anymore. For either of them. They_ became_ each other's firsts in every way that mattered, and Derek got a second chance at his first time. It was a chance that he had long thought himself too afraid- too damaged- to take.

Spencer slowly shuffled his way across the room, and Derek shook himself out of his memories. It was amazing how something as innocuous as an ugly pair of faded green plaid pajamas could lead to such troubled thoughts. He waited for the silent man to settle himself into a comfortable position before pulling the covers up around his shoulders and pressing a soft kiss against his temple.

"'Night, babe."

There was no response, but then, he hadn't expected one.

It was only a slight shifting at first, not enough to rouse him completely but enough that his mind registered the change. Then there was the whisper of soft fabric dragged across softer sheets. The tiny whimper of distress started the process of bringing him to full alertness, but what really did it was the sudden heat. It was a warmth he'd become accustomed to feeling. The familiar, comforting weight settled against his chest; when the barrier of worn cotton had been discarded, he could only guess. He ran a slightly calloused hand along the smooth skin of his lover's back, hoping to sooth the man back into a deeper state of sleep and soon began to drift away himself.

The body shifted again, soft curls tickling his bare chest, and another whimper reached his ears. He lifted himself onto his elbows as best he could without dislodging the man who'd made a pillow of his chest. All that he could see from this position was that unruly mop that he could never resist running his fingers through. As he did just that, a shiver ran through that slender body, and a sharp intake of breath was let out in shuddered puffs against his skin.

_Another nightmare. _

"Spencer… C'mon baby, wake up."

Red-rimmed, wide eyes met his. They were so distant and unfocused for a moment that he wondered if they were actually seeing anything. They cleared almost instantly, and Derek knew that he had only been lost in thought. The change was much too sudden.

"Have you slept at all?"

Spencer just stared back at him, eyes going slightly hazy again, and Derek resigned himself to continued silence.

"… I couldn't."

_Well, at least he's talking._

"You couldn't sleep?"

"No. I…"

He let out a long exhale and rested his forehead in center of the muscled chest before lifting his head once more. He stared back at Derek, some dark, unnamed emotion filling his eyes with something truly disturbing. It was something akin to hopelessness and fear and desperation, but it was so much more. So much so, that Derek found himself unable to move, unable to speak. All he could do was hold that gaze- bear witness to the storm that raged within the other man and hope that something could be salvaged in the aftermath.

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	12. Chapter 12: The Paradox of Broken Glass

*****Author's Notes: To anyone who is re-reading this chapter (and I hope that you are), please forgive me for the horrific number of typos in the initial posting. I accidentally posted the document with the completely un-proofed version of this chapter. Thanks to all who brought the typos to my attention. **

**This is pretty much the parallel of Chapter 11. We're back to following Spencer, and a lot of this chapter is what he's thinking. Direct thoughts, as always, are in italics. Read and review; I hope you enjoy.*****

He had been grasping at sleep for nearly two hours now, and still it eluded him. The faint sound of the heartbeat beneath his ear was usually a balm on nights like this- nights when he couldn't get his brain to just… _stop_ long enough to allow him to rest. The warm weight of the arm draped across his back was usually a reminder that he was safe, protected, loved. That he wasn't alone. For the first time, it wasn't enough.

So many times on that seemingly endless drive, he'd wanted to speak, but fear blazed like fire in his mind, burning and consuming all rational thought. He couldn't think. He couldn't _not_ think. He couldn't trust his thoughts. He damn sure couldn't voice them.

What could he have said, really? 'I'm losing my mind? Is this even real? Are _you_ real?' He was sure that wouldn't have gone over too well. He could just see it now: Derek would look at him with that dark, piercing gaze. His brows would knit together in a look of utter confusion and concern. He would pull to the side of the road. The silence would be unbearable at first, and then he would speak. That deep, calming voice would weave its spell, soothing him, comforting him, telling him that everything would be alright. Derek would urge him to reveal more, to lay his mind bare. Then he would proceed to pick it apart. After that, it would just be a short detour to the nearest psychiatric facility. It was almost enough to make him laugh. He couldn't tell Derek. He hadn't packed _that _many clothes.

By the time Spencer had finished his shower, he was so desperate to avoid conversation that he stalled in any way that he could. He took his time dressing himself in his favorite pair of pajamas, thankful that he'd thought to grab his Go Bag on the way through the bedroom. He examined his face after wiping the steam-fogged mirror with a towel and frowned at the weary man staring back at him. He _really_ needed to sleep.

Spencer could hear Derek moving about in the next room, no doubt getting ready for bed himself. 'Just a little longer,' he thought as he pulled a toothbrush from his travel kit. It was time to replace the one he'd left here. The movement in the next room had all but stopped. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry.

_And the ADA does recommend brushing for a full two minutes or about 10 seconds per tooth surface._

He would do twelve.

At last, there was no sound coming from the other side of the door. Spencer crept out of the bathroom, fully expecting to see Derek fast asleep on the left side of the bed, closest to the bedroom door. Instead, the man was just entering said door, a thick dark blue blanket folded in his arms. He looked at Spencer, briefly scanning his form as if trying to spot what was out of place and then turned to spread the blanket out over the bed.

"You wanna talk about it?"

There was nothing he'd rather do less. He edged his way toward the bedroom door, a hundred excuses for leaving the room 'just for a minute' forming in his mind.

"Okay. We don't have to talk about it right now."

_I wonder how long __**that**__ will last._

"You know, the bed's a lot more comfortable."

He needed more time to think, to plan his words in the assuredly unavoidable confrontation. But then, maybe he _shouldn't_ plan his words. Maybe he should just tell the truth. Derek would hear him out. He would at least _try_ to understand. Wouldn't he?

But what if he didn't? What if he decided that he didn't want any part of the mess that his life had become? What if he left? What if he asked _him_ to leave? No- Derek wouldn't do that. What kind of person was he to suggest, even to _himself,_ that his boyfriend would be that cruel? They'd talked about this before. It was only in theory then, but Derek had promised that he would never abandon the one he loved. Derek was nothing like his father.

"Spencer, what-"

He'd done it again- gotten lost in his thoughts. Only this time, there was no amused grin, no playful ruffling of his hair. Derek sounded irritated. Irritated and tired.

_Tired of dealing with __**me**__…_

"Okay. I said we didn't have to talk about it. I'm sorry. Let's just go to bed."

So the dreaded discussion would be postponed after all. He could do this. It would probably all end tomorrow, but they still had tonight.

_For one last night, let me pretend._

2:10... 2:27... 3:17...

The night was passing slower than he'd expected. Each passing second brought them closer to a new day. He thought of Silvia then. Of her uncanny way of boiling down any thought or feeling, any moment in time, to a few choice lines of literature. He could almost hear her now.

'_We had no other thing to do, save to wait for the sign to come. So, like things of stone in a valley lone, quiet we sat and dumb…'_

Or something to that effect. She seemed partial to Wilde, in any case.

The smile that this brought to his lips vanished in an instant. He hadn't just heard her voice, had he? No. It was only a thought. Silvia wasn't here. She was safe behind the locked door of his apartment, 12.3 miles away. There was no way he could have heard her.

And he should have left it at that. But being the logical, analytical person that he was, he couldn't simply abandon a thought once it had begun. What was there to stop Silvia and Gabriel from showing up right now? He knew that they weren't real, physical beings- that they were products of his own treacherous mind. Realistically, they could manifest in any place that he happened to be. Unconsciously, he clung a bit tighter to Derek's sleeping form.

_This is real._

He repeated the phrase like a mantra in his head.

_This is real. This is real…_

But was it?

It was the Paradox of Broken Glass all over again: If the glass had broken while he was in the room, he must have broken it. If the glass had broken while he stood outside the door, he _still_ had to have broken it. If he heard the glass break on the other side of the door, and the glass was actually broken by himself, then the source of the sound was real and actually generated by himself. But Derek had stood right beside him and had given no indication that anything was amiss. Despite his love of the Sci-Fi genre, he'd never believed that a person could be in two different places at once.

_So one of these 'realities' always has to be false._

He snuggled closer into Derek's warmth and shuddered at the thought that, in a way, the evidence of his sanity potentially rested on broken glass. That is, if all was as he assumed. If the presence of a third-party witness disproved the reality of the broken glass, couldn't the presence of the broken glass, in fact, disprove the reality of the third-party witness?

His clothing was suddenly too restrictive. The fabric was scratchy against his skin. Moving as little as possible, Spencer shed the offending articles and all but melded his body against the other man's.

_This is real. __**This **__is real._

But the thought had already taken root.

_If the glass is broken, then __**that**__ is real. If that is real, then __**this**__ is not. How do I know that this is real? How do I know that I'm not at home, still lying on my bathroom floor? How do I know if __**anything**__ is real?_

As if in reply to the silent question, he felt the large, gun-calloused hand rub soothingly up and down his back.

_Yes…_

Derek's fingers carded lovingly through his hair, more tenderness in that one touch than some people experienced in a lifetime.

_Don't stop…_

His very soul seemed to shudder at the touch. He felt the body beneath him shift and let out a shaky breath

"Spencer… C'mon baby, wake up."

"…"

"Have you slept at all?"

This wasn't in his head. It couldn't be. As brilliant as he would admit that his mind was, he doubted if it could ever create something this beautiful, this perfect.

"…I couldn't."

"You couldn't sleep?"

"No. I…"

…_just needed to know. You have no idea how much I need you- how lost I would be without you._

He met those warm, dark depths and held their gaze, striving to convey with his own eyes the words that had lodged in his throat.

_Don't give up on me. Don't leave me with myself. Please, just… prove to me that this is real. And if I forget, prove it to me again and again…_

Before either could question his actions, Spencer closed the last few inches between them. The soft, full lips parted against his own, and the strong arms that wrapped around him tightened and loosened, unsure of the appropriate response. With a firm grip on the thick biceps, Spencer urged the man to reverse their positions. They turned, kiss unbroken, the fledgling sounds of kindled passion banishing the silence. Their breaths mingled, warm and moist in the shared space.

"Should I even ask?" He peppered kisses down the pale column of Spencer's neck.

"Probably not."

"Are you sure this is what you want right now?"

"I don't want to be able to think about anything else."

A seductive laugh and a ghosting of lips.

"I think I can accomplish that."

He looked up then. Those fierce eyes softened and became so tender and full of emotion that Spencer thought that just looking into them might be his undoing.

"It's just you and me, Spencer. No one else."

"Promise?"

He'd meant for it to sound less desperate. The kiss that this prompted left him reeling and clinging to the edges of coherent thought as tightly as he clung to his lover's body.

"Always," came the whispered reply.

And that was all he needed to hear. _**This **_was real.

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Notes: I would like to give a heartfelt 'Thank You' to everyone who has shown enthusiasm for and kept up with this story. For those of you who hacked your way through the jungle of typos that was Chapter 12: The chapter has been reposted, and it will **_**not **_** happen again. Thank you for your patience, and I hope that you continue to enjoy.**

***This chapter picks up directly from Chapter 12. There is no time lapse. I tell you this to avoid confusion, because there is a bit of a mood shift here. I assure you that it was done with reason. **

***Disclaimers are in Chapter 1.**

There were some things that Spencer really hated doing. Even when these things were right and proper and completely necessary, he hesitated every time. Letting out a sigh of resignation and schooling his features into a look of contrition, he steeled himself for the task at hand.

"Derek… Wake up."

He _really_ hated doing this.

"Derek, come on; it's 6:35. Time to get up."

He shook the shoulder a little harder.

"Five more minutes," came the muffled reply.

"You said that five minutes ago."

"I did?"

Spencer couldn't help but to be amused by the drowsy confusion that crinkled his lover's closed eyes. "Five more minutes, Derek," he laughed. "I mean it this time."

"Mmhmmph."

7:21AM

"Derek, time to get up now."

Nothing.

"Derek?" Spencer scowled lightly. He cleared his throat, a tinge of red coloring his cheeks. "Umm... honey? _Sweet… heart?"_ Derek rolled over, inadvertently pinning the flustered man with one arm and snuggled into his side. "Now this is just ridiculous." His face showed a new determination. "Derek Morgan, you get out of bed this instant."

"…Five more-"

"No. No 'five more minutes'. You've had three 'five more minutes' already. Now come on, I'll start breakfast while you get a shower." Spencer slipped from the bed and into the pair of pajama pants that lay on the floor. "Derek, I'm not kidding. You're going to be late, and I won't be blamed for it this time."

"…"

"Morgan!"

"I'm up! I'm up!" He sprang upright in bed, swinging his legs over the side and rubbing both hands harshly over his face.

"Good. I'll be in the kitchen. Can I trust you to stay on task?"

"Yes, Mom," Derek said through a yawn, stretching his arms over his head. Spencer rolled his eyes and left him to his own devices.

The coffee was steaming in both mugs, and Spencer stood at the stove, deftly flipping eggs over easy as he sipped his sugary brew. He grimaced as he slid the eggs from the pan and onto a plate. Why Derek chose to eat this poison, he would never understand. He had argued the dangers of eating undercooked eggs and the risk of contracting Salmonella poisoning ad nauseam. It made no sense to start the day by playing Russian roulette with bacteria. And besides that, the dish always looked so… _creepy_.

He looked down at the bulging yellow eyes that glared back at him through their cataracts of egg white. They were almost accusing. A five second staring match ensued, at the end of which, Spencer conceded defeat, grabbed a strip of crisp bacon, and gave the plate an attitude adjustment. "There." He smiled back at the much happier (yet still dangerously undercooked) eggs. The toast popped up right on time, and he stacked it onto a small plate and set it as a No-man's-land between Derek's breakfast and his own scrambled eggs.

The sound of running water had stopped several minutes earlier, and Spencer hoped that the hot shower had convinced Derek's body that it was indeed time to start the day. He walked into the bedroom, curious as to why he didn't hear the frenzied movements of someone rushing to avoid the wrath of Hotch. What he saw was slightly less pitiful and more than a little frustrating.

Derek Morgan was sprawled face-down across the foot of the bed, wearing nothing but boxers and socks. A few beads of water that had escaped the reach of a towel trailed in glistening streaks down his back. Spencer followed their progress in a sort of trance until the sleeping man let out an obnoxious snore. The spell was officially broken.

"Get up! **Get up! GET **_**UP**_**!**" he cried, his voice getting louder with each word. Each command was punctuated by the dull thump of the pillow that was repeatedly swung at his lover's prone form.

"Hey! What the hell, man?" He startled awake, turning to glare at the other man. The pillow flew into his chest. He caught it on the second swing, easily bringing down his assailant, who refused to let go of the weapon. Derek tugged; Spencer tugged back. And soon, they were engaged in a full-out, horizontal tug-of-war. They rolled back and forth across the bed, the pillow caught between them. Laughter echoed off the walls, and for a brief moment in time, it was as though the past month had never happened.

"Let go of the pillow."

"No." He let out a hysterical laugh as one of Derek's hands darted around the coveted down-filled bludgeon to tickle him.

"Let go, Pretty Boy. You know I'll get it eventually."

"You let go. I had it first."

"You HIT me with it!"

"Only because you wouldn't get up."

"So, what- you're just gonna _beat_ me awake now?"

"If it works."

"Alright then."

Derek suddenly let go of the pillow, and Spencer flew backwards onto the bed, due to the sudden lack of resistance. He grinned triumphantly, clutching his prize to himself until he noticed just _why _his opponent had forfeited.

"You wouldn't dare." His eyes narrowed before going comically wide. Derek's hand inched toward another pillow at the head of the bed.

"Oh I wouldn't, would I? And why is that?"

"Because you love me."

"And?"

"And I'm… sorry?"

There was a pause in which Derek seemed to think this over. Then he shook his head. "Not good enough." What happened next was a complete surprise to them both.

Derek got to his knees, pillow clutched in hand, fully intending to exact vengeance upon his lover, who was pleading for mercy through fits of breathless laughter. He raised the pillow high into the air and put a considerable amount of force into the downswing. But revenge just wasn't in the cards today. Acting on instinct and hours upon hours of what he had assumed were failed attempts at defense training, Spencer stopped the older agent's descent with a sharp knee to the abdomen. Derek faltered and dropped the pillow, a pained noise escaping his lips as he continued to fall forward… right over the shocked genius and onto the hardwood floor.

Spencer's exemplary show of quick reflexes was proven to be a fluke as he reached out to stop Derek's fall and only succeeded in getting dragged down with him. "Oomf," Derek grunted as the suddenly not-so-skinny Dr. Spencer Reid knocked the air out of him for the second time in four seconds. This time, a bony elbow landed in virtually the same spot that had been abused only a moment ago. They lay side-by-side on their backs, groaning on the bedroom floor.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah- Yeah, I think so. You okay?"

"Umm… probably a little bruised, but yeah."

Just then, Clooney walked past the bedroom door, pausing for only a moment to look curiously at the two men. He let out a low woof, turned, and headed in the direction of the kitchen. "Sorry, Clooney!" Derek yelled after him. "What? He was up late too. I was gonna let him sleep in. Don't look at me like that." Spencer turned his amused face away from Derek and up to the ceiling.

"You do realize that you're catering to a dog."

"They're called man's best friend for a reason, Spence," he replied sitting up and rotating his right shoulder. He got to his own feet then reached out a hand in assistance.

"Thanks," Spencer groaned stretching his long limbs once he was vertical. He smiled sheepishly. "Uh, sorry about that. I didn't mean to react so badly."

"Oh, I wouldn't say you reacted 'badly'. I'm just wondering why you can't do that to UnSubs." The look he got in response was half pout, half glare.

"Well, the next time a serial killer tries to tickle me to death, I'll know what to do."

"Aww…" Derek laughed, taking his wrist and pulling the retreating body to his own. "You know I didn't mean it like that. I know you can take care of yourself."

There was silence for a few seconds. And then:

"Sometimes, I don't know if anyone really believes that." He sighed into Derek's shoulder. "Sometimes I don't know if I believe it either."

The carefree mood was slipping through their hands quicker than either of them could grasp, but Derek tried to hold on just a bit longer. The tightness of the arms encircling the younger man betrayed his need to just hold on to _something_. At least this was tangible. This he could do. He drew back and brushed the hair away from Spencer's face. The tumult of emotion he saw there was too mixed to decipher, so he pressed a kiss against his forehead and against both closed lids before shutting his own eyes and capturing the slightly parted lips in a gentle kiss.

"I will _always_ be there to take care of you, and I know that you'll always take care of me. Nobody can do it all own their own. Lucky for us, we don't have to try." The tentative smile this elicited lightened his heart and renewed the hope that he didn't know had been fading. "What do you say we get that breakfast now?"

"Oh!" Spencer whipped around to look at the clock. "It's probably cold by now. Okay. Hurry up and get dressed while I reheat the food. I'll fix your coffee to go. If you're quick, we'll have twenty minutes before you have to leave." He rushed from the room, and Derek chuckled to himself, hurrying to get dressed.

Spencer finished setting the plates back on the table at exactly 7:09AM, leaving them a whole twenty-one minutes to eat and chat before traffic concerns would make it too risky to dawdle any longer. He looked up and smiled when Derek came in adjusting his holster as he walked. The midnight blue button-down shirt had been a gift from Spencer, and the drape of the fabric never failed to remind him that he'd bought it for completely selfish reasons. He made a small, involuntary noise of approval that he hoped would go unnoticed.

"You say somethin'?"

Spencer looked up from his coffee. His face was flushed a faint pink, and he was having some trouble maintaining eye contact. "I said 'Mmm.' It's uh… good coffee."

"I'm sure it is." He sat down across from the obviously embarrassed man and took a sip from his travel mug. "Perfect," he purred in a tone that Spencer was not at all used to hearing at the breakfast table. He was sure that Derek was doing this on purpose. The teasing chuckle that followed the clatter of a nearly fumbled ceramic mug confirmed his suspicions.

"You know, it never ceases to amaze me. After all the things we've done- all the things I've watched you do-" here, he raised a suggestive brow, and Spencer went back to studying his coffee, "it's way too easy to make you blush."

"Derek."

"Yeah?"

"19 minutes, 26 seconds. Eat."

"Yes, sir," he grinned and began to fill his plate.

After a few bites, Derek looked around the table, perplexed. "Where's the sausage?"

"Is something wrong with the bacon?"

"No. Everything's great. I just could've sworn I smelled sausage." His voice held a note of disappointment, and Spencer ducked his head. He filled his mouth with cheesy scrambled eggs and tried not to look guilty. When he looked up again, Derek was watching him intently while taking a bite of runny egg yolk saturated toast.

"What?" he squeaked.

Never taking his eyes off his boyfriend, Derek finished chewing before he asked, "What are you feeling guilty about?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Derek shook his head. "I've learned to be skeptical when the words 'I don't know' come out of your mouth. Now, what is it?"

"You should finish your breakfast. I don't think it'll hold up to a second reheating."

Derek put down the toast, brushed off his hands, and crossed his arms. "We can sit here all day."

"I can. You can't," Spencer replied, reaching across the table to tap the face of his boyfriend's watch.

"Try me."

Spencer let out a frustrated sigh. "Fine," he huffed, drawing out the word and sounding for all the world like a petulant adolescent. "I'll admit it. You were right- I _did_ cook sausage."

"What? Spencer, if this is some kind of diversionary tactic, I gotta say, it's not your best work." He saw the tiniest of smiles disappear behind Spencer's cup before he composed himself, set down the coffee and spoke again.

"There wasn't enough for two."

Derek took in the deadpan expression and blinked in confusion.

"Wait a minute." He held up a hand. "Just… Are you trying to tell me that you honestly felt guilty for eating the last of the sausage?" He could feel his face morphing to match his tone of complete and utter incredulity, and this time, Spencer didn't even bother to hide his amusement.

"I didn't eat it. I gave it to Clooney."

Derek looked over his shoulder to see a contented Clooney lounging on a cushion near his food bowl. A good third of his food remained in the bowl, most likely abandoned for finer cuisine. Images of fat Roman emperors sprang to mind. "Maybe I should put him on a diet," he mused aloud.

"A full-grown male Akita Inu can weigh anywhere between 75 and 120 pounds. Clooney's well within the recommended weight for his age and height. You can't punish him for ruining your breakfast."

"So, let me get this straight. You cooked the last of the sausage specifically to give to Clooney?" He paused and delivered a smirk of his own. "You do realize that you're catering to a dog."

"Oh, please. What I did doesn't even compare to how much you spoil him."

"Clooney's not spoiled- he's appreciated."

"Derek, the dog has his own room."

"It's a spare room. It's not like I was using it anyway."

Derek made it out the door by 7:30, which Spencer considered a minor miracle. Their morning together had ended with a few kisses at the door and a promise that Spencer would be there when he returned. After petting Clooney one last time and admonishing him to be good, Derek got into the SUV and headed for work. Spencer waved from the doorway and watched as the vehicle drove out of sight. 'How domestic,' he though wryly, a faint smile playing at his lips. The woman in the house across the street sneered from her living room window before yanking the curtain closed. Spencer's smile only broadened.

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	14. Chapter 14

There was a time when Spencer Reid would have given anything to be able to say that he had no obligations. Now, the very idea struck a chord of fear and panic within him that no task, personal or professional, could ever inspire.

It wasn't that circumstances had become unbearable. It wasn't that there was nothing left in his life that made it worth living. It wasn't even that he had purposefully given up. At any given point in his existence, he had entertained one or more of these thoughts, but he'd always eventually come to the conclusion that they were temporary and ultimately untrue.

Spencer wasn't a coward. If asked, he could give an unabridged catalogue of each and every one of his shortcomings, but _cowardice_? That wasn't one of them. He had run away plenty of times. It would have been stupid and prideful to try to take on every hostile force that life threw his way, but he had never given up without first considering the odds. The factor that always decided whether he would stand or run was the answer to a single question: "Is this a fight?"

Was it a fight or a potential slaughter? Was the game rigged (it almost always was) or fair? If the game was rigged, could the system be beaten? Was there an iota of hope, or was failure inevitable? It would have been foolish for him to stand up to his childhood bullies, all of whom were older, faster, and stronger.

He had run from those situations so often that sometimes he found that he was _still_ catching his breath. Sweat-soaked, chest heaving, limbs trembling with adrenaline and sheer exhaustion- he was used to 3 AM marathons on uneven terrain. Running never guaranteed safety, whether it was in his dreams or in the memories from which his dreams spawned. His pursuers would catch him each and every time. But it was never a fight. It was never fair. He wasn't a coward for trying to survive.

Spencer also learned at an early age that he couldn't always pick his battles- that more often than not, they chose him. And Fate had a serious tendency toward one-sided battles. Abandonment. Neglect. Physical, emotional, and psychological torment. Isolation. If he didn't get it at home, the students and faculty were kind enough to accommodate him at school. It was a well-rounded education, to say the least.

It came back to him from time to time- words that Garcia had spoken during one of the cases that would forever haunt him:

"_Adam Jackson's life reads like a How to Make an UnSub manual."_

It was true. It would have been so easy to say 'the kid never had a chance', to shake his head and walk away. _**Like everyone else.**_ But Spencer wasn't everyone else. He couldn't give up on Adam any more than he could have given up on his own mother.

Dissociative Identity Disorder wasn't Schizophrenia. He knew that. Still, he had to believe, _had to believe_ that people like Adam Jackson- people whose lives were shaped by the worst possible combinations of nature and nurture- could fight, endure, and _survive_.

For two weeks he had done nothing but eat, sleep, and deteriorate. And not necessarily in that order. He had gotten almost to the point of surrender. As much as his stubbornness would not allow him to admit it to another person, there had been nights when the vague hope of not waking in the morning was the only thing that could convince him to close his eyes. He had been grieving, and no amount of knowledge could override the complete and utter hopelessness on those seemingly endless nights. He was still grieving and knew that he would be for quite some time, but his dance along the brink of cowardice was over.

His thoughts had been scattered all morning. The moment he'd closed the door between himself and the rest of the world, the gates of his mind were thrown open. The relentless thoughts jostled and pushed- tried to fight their way past the narrow gate and to the head of the procession.

_Mom… Amanda… cemetery… Dilaudid… pain… Alexa… Derek… cravings… Riley… meetings… Gideon… Dad… Mom… _

And round and round they went, until he thought he would be sick from the motion of thought alone.

After trying and failing to go back to sleep, he turned his focus to keeping as busy as possible. Sadly, there was only so much to do around the house. The dishes were washed. A load of linens were in the dryer. Clooney had been fed, walked, and sufficiently "appreciated", as Derek would put it. There was no cold case to ponder, no files to review. There wasn't even a Philosophy paper that he could use for an excuse to _not think_. It was just him, alone in his head for the next- he looked at the clock- 6 hours, 25 minutes. Eventually, having exhausted all other routes, his mind turned onto the one path to which it had repeatedly been denied access.

_Silvia… Gabriel… _

And oh, how he wished he could turn back now.

He walked up and down that path, kicking over stones, revealing moss-colored things that only grew in dark places. The fear wasn't as visceral as it had been the night before. He felt somehow more removed from it. That was good. When he said that he did some of his best work under intense terror, staying cool and collected while facing down the proof of his own insanity wasn't what he had in mind.

The phone rang a little after noon. Choosing to not answer a ringing a phone was a privilege that Spencer had only recently experienced, and he would have indulged this time- except that it just happened to be the land line. After the fourth ring, it went to voice-mail, and Derek's voice came over the line.

"Hello there, Sleeping Beauty. It's time to wake up. Rise and shine."

Spencer stared at the phone, head tilted and lips curving into a faint smile at the affection in his lover's voice. He reached out a hand to hover over the receiver and decided to wait a few seconds longer before answering. There was a pause and a heavy sigh.

"Okay. I'm gonna assume that you're doing some kind of research project on the health benefits of sleeping ridiculously late. Or… that you're just standing there, staring at the phone with that cute little face you make when you think no one's looking." He laughed knowingly. "Am I right? Come on, baby, answer the phone. You know you want to."

He grinned when Spencer picked up, immediately answering with what was obviously feigned frustration.

"What do you want, Derek?"

"Don't be mad 'cause I was right."

"I'm not mad. And who says you were right?"

"You're makin' the face right now, aren't you?"

Spencer set his mouth into a thin line. "No." There was more laughter from Derek's side.

"Alright, I'll stop now. _Anyway_, I just called to see if you'd be interested in getting together for lunch. We could meet at that café a couple of blocks from here- the one where the girls get those little sandwiches and the mini cups of coffee. You know the place?"

Spencer nodded.

"Baby, you know I can't hear that nod, right?"

He ducked his head sheepishly. "Yeah. I know the place."

"Good. Now, there's a rumor goin' around that they do have coffee in adult sizes _and_ that they serve real food there as well. Plus, Penelope tells me there's this cozy little booth in the back. You interested?"

Spencer considered his options.

_You can sit here all day and drive yourself- __**Don't finish that thought.**__ Okay. You can sit here and complete the same circuit of thought over and over until Derek gets home, after which you'll spend all night attempting to keep said thoughts to yourself, __**or**__ you can actually leave this house and take a few steps back into the world of the living. He's got to be pretty sick of bringing you take-out and groceries and calling in the middle of the day to make sure you're alright and-_

"Turn the volume down. I can hear you thinkin' yourself in circles all the way over here. It's just lunch. I'll understand if you don't feel up to it."

_Of course, he would say that even if he __**couldn't**__ understand. Do you honestly think that he would tell you the real purpose behind this little date? Think about it: He's calling you in the middle of the day, asking you to take a 27 minute drive so that you can spend 30 minutes together in a quiet, semi-private environment when- unless there's a case he's completely failed to mention- he'll be home in a little over six hours. Does he miss you __**that**__ much, already? _

_No. It doesn't sound plausible at all. He knows you so well that he can predict your body language over the phone. How long do you think it'll take him to puzzle out precisely what you're thinking once you're face to face? Five minutes? Ten? He doesn't trust you to be alone anymore. That's what this is about, and you know it._

"_Hello_?"

"Yeah. I'm, uh- I'm here."

"Spencer, are you alright?" Derek had dropped his voice to a near-whisper, well aware that Prentiss was only _pretending_ to be disinterested in his private conversation. Of course, _he _ was only pretending that she and the rest of the team didn't know exactly who he was talking to, but plausible deniability was impossible unless they all played their parts. "Do you need me to come home?"

"No," Spencer answered a little too quickly, and Derek frowned into the phone.

"Are you sure? I could swing by a drive-thru and be there in 30 minutes. We can have lunch right there on the couch."

_You start this now, and you might as well let him monitor every meal. Is that what you want- someone to watch your every move and try to decipher some hidden meaning? Someone to take care of you, to make sure that you eat and sleep and groom yourself properly? To be treated like a child, like an invalid… Like your m-_

"Stop! Please just… stop." He hadn't meant to speak it aloud. The words rushed out too fast for him to rein them in. They hit a brick wall of confusion and crumbled into silence. Neither of them spoke for several long seconds, both too wary of how the other would react.

"I'm comin' home." The tone was decisive, final.

_Do you see now? You never really had a say in the matter. _

"I'm fine, Derek. You don't need to do that. Really."

"I'll be there in 20 minutes."

_Big, strong Derek Morgan is coming to save the day again. What__** would**__ you do without him? _

"I said I'm fine." It was getting difficult to keep up with these two threads of conversation, and his annoyance at the situation bled through into his tone.

"You don't sound fine."

Spencer could hear friendly chatter and the sound of elevator doors opening and closing.

_You should listen to him. You really don't sound all that fine, you know. Think he'll have you committed right away or take you out for your last meal as a free man?_

"Derek, I do _not_ need a babysitter." _Oh, I'm sure he'll listen now. Come on, Spencer. You'll have to do better than that. _"If you come home right now, I'll leave."

The elevator doors opened again, and Spencer knew that Derek was the lone stationary figure in the crowd.

"Baby, what the hell is goin' on?" He could hear the restrained panic in Derek's voice.

"If you can't trust me enough to believe me when I say that I can take care of myself for nine hours, then I don't think I should be here when you get back."

"I never said that you couldn't take care of yourself. And this has nothing to do with trust."

_But it does. It has __**everything **__to do with trust. Ask him, Spencer. Ask him why he showed up at your apartment last night. Ask him how he knew that you would __**need**__ him. Ask him how long he's been having you monitored._

"Is it true?" Spencer's voice possessed a quiet hostility that Derek hadn't heard in years. He was almost afraid to ask.

"Is what true?"

"Are you having me _watched_?"

"Spencer, that's…" he trailed uselessly.

_Crazy… Paranoid... Why don't you fill in the blanks on that one?_

Then, in a moment of clarity, it came to him. It was so clear, so incredibly easy to see, that Spencer wondered at his own blindness. "Christine," he said in a seething whisper, using her given name for the first time. Derek was always much more informal. "You have Mrs. Leichtner keeping tabs on me. That's how you knew. Tell me I'm wrong, Derek."

The happy chatter of a group of co-workers eager to escape the office, if only for a single hour, reached Spencer's ears. Someone suggested Indian. Someone else complained before eventually giving in to her three cajoling friends. Spencer had his answer.

Derek gaped silently, struggling to understand how one phone call could go so terribly wrong. The faint clink of a fumbled handset caught his attention and reminded him that he really needed to say something. "Spencer? Baby, please don't… Hello? " The dead silence of a disconnected call met the question with cruel indifference. "_Shit!_" He stopped just short of smashing the phone into the cold, stainless steel walls. Suddenly, the only sound left was the inhale-exhale of one ragged breath after another. He didn't have to turn around to know what he would find, and in this moment, he couldn't bring himself to care.

_Let them stare._

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	15. Chapter 15

After pacifying an oddly anxious Clooney, Spencer coaxed the reluctant Akita out into the fenced back yard. He barked and whined, nudging at Spencer's legs the entire time. It was unusual behavior for him. His quiet, laid-back personality made the large dog much less intimidating, one of the things that had allowed them to overcome the dreaded Reid Effect and to bond. Spencer knew that Clooney's anxious behavior was just a reaction to his own. He tried to modulate his voice to a its normal tones, to relax his body language and display some semblance of calm, but it turned out that killers and psychopaths were a lot easier to fool.

Clooney bounded over to Spencer and blocked his path to the back steps. The bumpy, rust-orange colored ball that he had stalwartly refused to fetch earlier that morning was presented to the bewildered genius. Even a colorblind animal could see how hideous the thing was. _Not that dogs are colorblind in a technical sense._ Still, Spencer had been genuinely amused by Clooney's discernment. But now, he was cocking his head, looking up with dark, intelligent eyes, and making these pleading little whimpers that no animal that strong with teeth that sharp should ever feel obliged to make.

"You really aren't as smart as you think you are." Spencer took the proffered toy, reached back, and threw it as far as he could across the yard. Clooney dashed off after it, and he used the brief distraction to slip back into the house. A muffled bark was followed by more of those small, plaintive noises that made Spencer feel like a parent leaving his four-year-old child on some stranger's doorstep. "Okay- So maybe you _are_ that smart," he muttered ruefully, moving away from the door and putting more distance between himself and world's most manipulative canine.

He didn't bother to gather the few things he'd unpacked the night before. There were always some of his things at Derek's house and vice versa. A few more items wouldn't hurt. Besides, it wasn't like he would need his Go Bag any time soon. Thinking only of getting out of there as quickly as possible, he slung his messenger bag over his shoulder and locked the front door behind him.

Spencer liked to think that he knew Derek Morgan. Right now, that inside-out knowledge of the man was being used to decide just _where_ he could go to avoid an immediate confrontation. The most important thing that he knew about Derek- the thing that was making his decision much harder than it should be- was that Derek knew Spencer just as well as Spencer knew him. This meant that any place that held any significance to him would already be on a list of places for Derek to search. His own apartment was out of the question for now. He could just imagine himself refusing to open the door and the stubborn man simply using his emergency key.

Derek wasn't usually that intrusive. Normally, he tried to respect others' privacy and avoided overstepping boundaries, but these were what he would call 'special circumstances'. Basically, any time that Derek was in any way, shape, or form worried about him, it was deemed a special circumstance. Spencer was honestly surprised at the amount of patience he'd shown over the past couple of weeks. He'd used his key only once, and that was after he'd been let in earlier that day. This time would be different though. He would be upset and desperate to plead his case after that phone call.

_He'll probably ambush me in my own living room._

Home was _so_ not an option.

Deciding to call a cab from another location, in case Derek planned to show up while he was waiting, Spencer took off at a brisk walk. Fortunately, the late May sun wasn't too harsh, even around noon. Spring had been hesitant to come this year and seemed just as reluctant to leave. With any luck, it would be a mild summer. Having grown up in Las Vegas, Spencer was accustomed to dealing with high temperatures. The worst summer days here were nothing by comparison. It was the rise in _ tempers _ that he couldn't stand. None of them could. Where most people associated the summer months with family vacations, sand and sun, and the fresh scent of ocean air, the agents of the B.A.U. had come to associate the summer months with drastic overkill and the stench of rapid decomposition.

0.93 miles away from Derek's neighborhood was a small park. It was little more than a couple of swing sets, a child's gym set, and a picnic area, but he remembered seeing some of the neighbors' kids playing there from time to time. It was quiet and safe; more importantly, it was within walking distance.

Spencer thought about that as he walked: It had been a while since a quick escape appealed to him more than his own safety. He shook away the thought and reminded himself that introspection and self-analysis were two very different things. The park was safe. It was the middle of the day, and the area was open and well-lit even at night. He wasn't being impulsive at all.

When Spencer finally arrived at the park, he was relieved to find that he was the only one there. Settling back on one of the benches, he closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. His skin tingled, and shadows of red and orange danced behind his eyelids as clouds passed across the sky. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves of the nearby oak that towered like a sentry over the rest of the park. He examined the tree, every knot and gnarl and high, wide-spread limb clear in his memory. It wasn't necessary to open his eyes, to disturb the peace of this moment.

Anger was easier to sustain. It required little thought and automatically put a measure of distance between a person and pain. Anger didn't care about the why's and how's of a situation- only that it had been evoked. It was an instant source of protection, but Spencer had come to learn that anger was, at best, a brittle shield. What appeared strong and unyielding would crumble to rust when hit in just the right place. After that, he would be vulnerable to further attack. And so the cycle would continue, on and on until what was worth protecting was irreparably broken. Anger wasn't a thinking man's guiding emotion.

Sitting here with nothing to distract him but the quiet sounds of nature and the buzzing of his own mind, Spencer took the time to truly think about how he felt. If he were to be completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that learning about Derek's actions was sort of a relief. It was proof that he could still think rationally, that his instincts hadn't dulled- that he wasn't paranoid.

_What was the saying? "It's not paranoia if they're really after you."_

"Let me guess: You're working on a B.S. in Bumper Sticker Philosophy?"

The pleasant contrast of the warm sun and the gentle caress of a cool breeze had lulled him into an almost meditative state before a voice slipped into the peaceful moment. He let his head loll to the right, too content to open his eyes.

"Philosophy isn't one of the Sciences. I believe you meant to say 'B.A.'"

He laughed. "I know it's an Art, genius. And I did mean 'B.S.'"

"He betrayed me," Spencer stated, abandoning the pretense of idle banter.

"I disagree."

"Of course you would." Before a protest could come, Spencer raised a hand for silence. "And before you tell me that _I'm_ the one who disagrees: I've been told that I'm pretty good at retaining information. Let's leave the semantics for now, shall we?"

"Whatever you say, Doc." He gave an exaggerated sigh and settled next to Spencer on the park bench. "So… Care to tell me what happened?" Spencer _did_ crack an eye at that. Gabriel shrugged, not even attempting to hide his smirk. "We agreed to drop the semantics."

"I didn't mean that you should feign ignorance. I've had enough dishonesty for one day, if you don't mind."

"Not at all."

They settled into a comfortable silence, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere for several long minutes.

"I'm not paranoid."

"Hmm."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"If you can't say something nice… don't say nothin' at all." Gabriel said it in a slow rhythm, one that might be used to teach a small child a useful phrase. Seeing the other's confused look, he expounded: "Bambi? Thumper the rabbit?" Spencer shook his head slowly. "Diana let you watch it when you were six. Your dad threw out the VHS because you started giving lectures on cruelty to animals. You quoted excerpts from _ The Jungle _ at the dinner table. When he told you that the book was outdated and the meatpacking industry had since been reformed, your mom started in on 'the lies of the government' and encouraged you to stand your ground. You refused to eat meat for two months, and they argued for weeks."

"I don't remember."

"You made pamphlets!"

"Why can't I remember that?"

Gabriel took in the increasingly distressed look on Spencer's face. "I wouldn't worry about it too much. If _I_ remember it, then in a way…" he shrugged, "well, I just wouldn't worry about it."

"How can I not worry? You're telling me that I'm missing a part of my childhood. I have an eidetic memory. I can't just… _forget_. With everything that's happened recently, you know the implications of that."

"Riley Jenkins."

"What?"

"Riley Jenkins. Don't tell me you forgot about him _again_."

"I didn't forget Riley Jenkins- I somehow blocked memories of him. I was young; it was a traumatic experience. You can't expect me to recall every detail of those events."

"Are you ready to hear my fourth point yet?"

Spencer gave him a look of total confusion until their early morning conversation slipped into the forefront of his mind. He stared then, trying and failing to piece together what seemed like only fragments of coherent thought. Gabriel stared back, his features betraying nothing, except his smug amusement at leaving the genius speechless. His smirk only widened when Spencer turned his head away and scoffed.

"You're trying to distract me."

"What's a little distraction between friends?"

"You keep changing the subject. How could you have possibly made the jump between a debate on Atheism and Riley Jenkins?"

Gabriel tilted his head to the side, studying Spencer with piercing green-gray eyes. "You still don't trust me, do you?" He sighed again, and for once the sadness that filled the sound was genuine.

"You stated that there was a flaw in my third argument- that the Romans were traditionally polytheists and that Caligula wasn't an atheist. The problem with your rebuttal is that I never said that he _was_. The atrocities that occurred under his reign had nothing to do with some stone pantheon of stolen gods or a calendar of rituals that he may or may not have observed. The origin of his corruption, and that of every man like him, lay in his _true_ religion. His life is a perfect example of how a sensible man can be driven to complete madness when he can find nothing better to worship than himself.

"Like I said, Doc: There is no such thing as an atheist. God, money, knowledge, power, pleasure, violence, pain, death… and the list goes on and on. Man will _always_ find something to satisfy that most intrinsic yearning. You call yourself an atheist, but you have more gods than you know, Spencer Reid."

Spencer was almost afraid to ask what he meant, but he had never been one to turn away from knowledge. The question had barely made it past his lips when Gabriel answered.

"Your idols are absolutes. Hotch is the exemplary SSA. Gideon was the ideal mentor. You're the textbook genius, and poor Derek is saddled with being the perfect lover.

You try to put everything into neat little boxes with black and white labels, and when that doesn't work- when life doesn't fit into a box or it turns out that something has been mislabeled, you go through the emotional equivalent of a crisis of faith. Think about it for a minute: You idolized Gideon as a mentor and father figure when his inadequacies should have been more than evident to a student of human behavior. That was blind faith if ever I've witnessed it. And what happened after he left? What was your reaction?

"Hotch kills a man with his bare hands, and your support of him is unwavering, but he lies to you to save the life of a friend and teammate, and _that_ is going too far. It wasn't that he betrayed you- it was that he betrayed your expectations of him. The same goes for Gideon and even your father."

"I never expected that man to be anything more than the bastard he is," Spencer refuted hotly. "I never wanted anything from him."

"Not every ideal is positive. You expected William Reid to be the perfect example of a deadbeat dad. Then, one day you discovered that the man you assumed had walked away from his family without a backward glance had actually been regretting that decision for years. You no longer wanted anything to do with him, so he gave you what you needed: silence and distance. You needed him to be the villain, and he played the part well. So well, in fact, that you were convinced he was capable of raping and killing a child. And oh, the devastation of learning that his part in that sordid play was that of supporting actor to the belovèd, tragic heroine.

"But you're right: I can't expect you to remember every detail surrounding the murder of Riley Jenkins. I don't expect _any _ aspect of who you are to be perfect. Not even your memory. You should show yourself the same leniency. And while you're at it, cut Lover-Boy some slack."

The flash of anger this inspired in Spencer was unexpected.

"He _lied_ to me. When I got back from Mom's-" Spencer's anger was drained instantly, replaced by the surreal sadness that always overtook him whenever he confronted this truth. He still couldn't bring himself to say the word 'funeral'. "When I got back," he continued in a quieter tone, "Derek agreed to let me handle things the way that I needed to handle them. He promised to back off for a while- to give me some room to breathe. He looked me in the eye and gave me his word. Now, you tell me how I'm supposed to trust a man who breaks the most simple of promises and then uses my _neighbors_to spy on me."

It was almost too much to ask that Gabriel wouldn't lose his temper at all during this exchange. He wasn't the most patient individual at the best of times, and the obstinate young man was trying what little patience he did possess. Still, he clamped down tightly on the annoyance that was rising to the surface and forced himself to only _half_ yell his reply.

"So he lied to you. Get over it. Half of the interactions we have on any given day are lies, and the other half are questionable. Stop trying to turn an isolated event into a vast conspiracy. It was _one_ neighbor. You've known Christine Leichtner for years. You're as close to friends as a 72 year old ex-homemaker and a 29 year old FBI agent can be. Which, considering the fact that it's you, shouldn't be too surprising I guess. Did you honestly think that you could keep what happened from her forever? Friends ask questions. Friends worry."

Gabriel stood and walked a few paces toward the towering oak. "And damn you for getting me involved in something as petty as this little lover's quarrel."

"I didn't ask you to get involved."

He snorted and leaned back against the trunk of the tree. "Yeah, well I'm here."

Spencer studied the man for a moment. He saw the tension in his shoulders and the set of his jaw. His left hand was in constant motion, tapping against the bark of the tree. He really didn't want to be here.

"Why _are_ you here?" he asked hesitantly. "And where is Silvia?"

Gabriel's scowl deepened before he purposefully smoothed his features into the mask of apathy he so often wore. "You know women; tell them they're a figment of someone's imagination, and they refuse to talk to you."

"Oh." Spencer didn't know what to say to that.

"Not that I'm not enjoying the quiet. It's just…"

"You miss her," Spencer said with a grin and couldn't resist the laugh that came when Gabriel's hard eyes opened to glare at him. "Admit it. For all the bickering that you two do, you really do care about each other."

Gabriel crossed his arms, his frown melting into a sly smile. "I'll admit to a slight fondness for Silvia if you'll admit that you're absolutely terrified of the prospect of losing Derek."

Spencer's smile faded into a scowl that was nearly a mirror of what Gabriel's had been moments before. "It's not the same thing."

"And why not?" he challenged.

"You said it yourself: You're not real."

"Then why does it matter to you whether or not I miss Silvia?"

"I… I don't know. It doesn't really."

Now Gabriel was laughing. It was the kind of laugh that was usually reserved for adults listening to the inane babble of children. "You and Silvia are two of a kind." He shook his head. "Doc, I need you to understand where I'm coming from on this: You're real, and I am a part of who you are. That's real enough for me. I don't need the kind of validation that Silvia needs, and I don't deal in deception- of myself or of anyone else. All you need to know, Dr. Reid, is that there are two people in this world who can never lie to you, and you're looking at one of them."

Spencer's brows furrowed in thought. It had been a simple enough statement.

_But complicated things often seem simple until you get past the surface._

"It _is_ that simple. Don't forget that I know what you're thinking. I know every foolish, self-destructive thought that goes through your head. Now, I'm asking you, for the sake of everyone involved- Do not throw away a relationship that it took years to even admit to wanting. Not over one argument. And not because the man cares about you too much to keep his promise to let you suffer alone- a promise that I'm sure was killing him as well."

For a long time Spencer didn't speak, but when he finally did, his voice came out timid and hopeful. "Do you really think so?"

Gabriel groaned and rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Don't make me say the 'L' word."

Spencer perked at this, seizing the opportunity to make Gabriel uncomfortable for once. "What word would that be? Lampshade? Locution? Loropetalum?"

"Doc…" he growled warningly.

"Oh! You mean 'love'. Come on, say it with me: _Love_."

Gabriel pushed off from the tree. "If you plan on being childish, you can do that on your own." He started off across the park. "Besides, there are more pressing matters that require your attention."

"Huh? Where are you going? Come on, I was only kidding!"

But the only response he got was a backwards wave as Gabriel continued to walk away, not even bothering to look back. He sat there, looking quite pleased with himself and the reaction he'd goaded out of the other man until a single word wiped the smile from his face.

"Spencer?" There was unconcealed worry in the soft voice.

Spencer turned back and looked up into the confused face of Derek Morgan.

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Notes: Thank you **_**ever**_** so much to everyone who took the time to leave a review on the last chapter. I try to be conscientious and respond to every review, but since that didn't happen this time, I'm doing it here. So, once again, thank you to all of those who left reviews and to each and every person who has chosen to continue to follow this story. **

**The actual A/N, as it pertains to this chapter: Judging by the feedback, some of you may be a bit 'huh?' at the direction that this chapter begins to take the story. I am **_**not**_** drawing the story out unnecessarily and am determined to stick to the original outline. If there is any confusion on this chapter or any other, I am always more than happy to try to clear it up. Okay- I'm just going to shut up now and let you read. I hope you enjoy!**

For a few seconds, the world stopped.

Spencer had always hated that cliché. He hated that the phrase was overused and hyperbolic, and how could the world stop, _really_? On a few occasions, he had been struck speechless, and his words had seemed suspended somewhere between his brain and his mouth. At times, his thoughts flew by so quickly that when he finally settled on a single idea, it felt like his _mind_ had stopped. But the entire _world_? It would be catastrophic for the earth to so much as slow down, let alone to stop. It was such an incomprehensible saying.

Until now.

"Derek." The name slipped out with the breath he'd been holding, and the planet kicked back into motion. "How long have you been here?" Derek studied him for a few more seconds then shook his head as though ridding himself of some troubling thought.

"I came in somewhere between 'lampshade' and 'laura-pellum'."

"Loropetalum," Spencer corrected, hoping that the tangent sounded as automatic as it normally would. "It's the genus name of three species of shrub in the witch-hazel family, native to China, Japan, and south-eastern Asia. The name refers to the shape of the flowers and comes from the Greek _loron_, meaning 'strap' and _petalon_, meaning 'flower'. The first Loropetalum plants were introduced into the U.S. in the 1880's, but it wasn't until-"

"Spencer," Derek interrupted in a voice that held none of the amused tolerance that was usually there when he prevented an oncoming rant. "That's all well and good, but it doesn't explain why you're sitting out here alone, talking about Chinese shrubs. It was almost like…" He averted his eyes uncomfortably before shaking his head again. "The way you looked- it was almost like you were talking to someone."

Somewhere, Gabriel was getting the last laugh, and Spencer was kicking himself for not paying attention to his surroundings. He could chastise himself later. Gabriel was right. There were more pressing matters at hand. He would also be pleased to know that he was right about one other thing: Spencer was absolutely terrified of losing Derek. Suddenly, all of that anger and indignation seemed so petty. He couldn't lose Derek. He _wouldn't_. Not because of one argument and not because of a situation that was beyond his control.

His face burned with anger and embarrassment. That was good. He could use that. He wasn't angry because of anything that Derek had done. He wasn't embarrassed at being caught basically having a conversation with thin air. The red in his cheeks and the tremor in his voice was due to nothing more and nothing less than the anger, embarrassment, and shame he felt for what he was about to do.

"Not that it's any of your business, but if you must know, it's sort of a coping mechanism that I developed when I was young. When things would get…" he paused and said the word with a scowl, "_unpleasant_, I found that it was sometimes easier to distract myself by reciting random bits of things that I've read. It started with textbooks, but I learned that, for some reason, fiction worked better than nonfiction, and the dialogue of plays was the most effective. It's silly and it's childish, and I would really appreciate it if you'd keep it to yourself."

He knew how the story sounded. He knew that if anyone else tried to sell this story to Derek Morgan after what he'd just witnessed, they wouldn't have a snowball's chance in Hell of pulling it off. But he wasn't anyone else. He was Spencer Reid, the somewhat eccentric genius who could tell you the phase of the moon on July 12, 1772, because he'd happened upon the charts at the back of one of Franklin's journals as an eight year old in the public library- the same library where he had cowered behind bookshelves and in private-study rooms to avoid bullies who had literally chased him in from the street. Would it be so unbelievable for the place that had offered him physical sanctuary to, in a manner of speaking, offer him emotional sanctuary as well?

Derek may not have known about the charts in the journal, but he knew enough about the rest. His mind would go to thoughts of a young Spencer Reid, frantic and desperate to escape relentless tormenters, only to be chased down across campus or shoved in a locker. Or tied to a goalpost. He'd heard the Alexa Lisbon story from Spencer's own lips no less than fourteen times. It was Derek's idea to sit quietly and listen to the account as many times as it took for Spencer to tell the story without being brought to the point of tears. He had to admit, it was a good idea. In the past, he wouldn't have been able to even _allude_ to that event and maintain this kind of composure.

Yes- Derek's thoughts would go to Spencer's experiences with childhood bullies after a story like that, but they wouldn't stop there. _"When __**things **__would get unpleasant." _He had placed the tonal emphasis on the word 'unpleasant' only to draw attention to the lack of emphasis on exactly _what_ had been unpleasant. It was a mistake that people made all the time- letting emotion get the better of them and giving away more information than they'd intended by attempting to sidestep a difficult subject. It wasn't unintentional in this case.

There were plenty of other 'things' about his childhood that could be classified as 'unpleasant', but there were only two that could have caused so much stress that he would have felt the need to create some method of escape. He knew that Derek wouldn't go near either of those topics. One would cause too much anger, the other too much sorrow. There would be no safe direction in which to take the conversation. There would be no way for Derek to know whether pressing the issue would do more harm than good. And so- being the good man that he was- he wouldn't press at all.

It truly was an ingenious ruse. Anyone else might have needed hours to work out the subtleties that Spencer wove so intricately in mere seconds. So why was it that he took absolutely no pride in this accomplishment?

_Because I'm a liar. Because the person I love most in this world is standing before me, ready and willing to pour out his heart, his soul, his very lifeblood if that's what was needed to keep me by his side. And I am a liar._

Spencer let the shame burn his face to a brilliant flush and put the finishing touches on the look with lowered eyes and defensively folded arms. Now, it was just a matter of waiting.

"It's not silly or childish, and you have _nothing_ to be embarrassed about. You just… caught me off guard, I guess."

And there it was: the opening that he needed.

_I'm sorry, Derek._

Spencer's head snapped up, and he rose to his feet. Hazel eyes blazed into dark brown. "_I_ caught _you_ off guard? Well, I'm sorry that I didn't have the courtesy to keep my eccentricities to myself while you were busy sneaking up behind me. How did you even know where I was, Derek? Should I buy a disposable phone the next time I decide to leave your house? I don't know if I would put it past you to have Garcia trace my cellphone signal. You certainly have no compunctions about getting others involved in violating my trust and privacy."

Derek took a step back as though he'd been struck. There were so many emotions behind those dark eyes before he bowed his head to stare at the grass at their feet. It was a rare thing for this confident man to waver and even rarer for him to show physical signs of nervousness. That he had been the one to cause this reaction left Spencer with a lump in his throat bigger than the one that Derek seemed to have developed and was now working to swallow. Reaching out a hesitant hand that grew steady once it had wrapped around a slender wrist, Derek looked up and met Spencer's eyes with a determined look of his own. He sat down slowly, never looking away, and gently tugged until the other man followed his example.

"You have every right to be upset, but please let me explain." Spencer's fingers twitched at the pleading tone of his lover's voice, and thinking that he meant to pull his hand away, Derek tightened his grip. "I'm not asking you to forgive me, but I need to tell you the truth. Just hear me out… Please." The plea was spoken so solemnly and with such quiet resolve, that Spencer could only nod his assent.

"I know that I was supposed to back off. And at first, I did. But then… then it was a few hours of callin' before you'd answer your phone. After that, it was one day, then two, and before I knew it, I hadn't heard from you in a week. So I said, 'Fuck it. I'd rather have you mad at me for showin' up unexpected than sit here drivin' myself crazy not knowing how you are.' So I came over, and I'm glad I did. You were…" He trailed off with a distant look while his thumb rubbed idle circles on the back of Spencer's hand. "Baby, you didn't see yourself. You looked so tired and worn-out. I could tell how much pain you were in, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do. Nothing except keep you company and restock the kitchen and maybe clean up a little bit. I just wanted to do something to help you." He gave a weary sigh.

"When I got back from the store, you were sleepin' so soundly that I didn't have the heart to wake you up. So, I left. Christine- Mrs. Leichtner," he corrected himself, "was just steppin' out of her apartment when I opened the door. Now that I think about it, she probably planned it that way. She said she'd seen people coming and going from your place but she hadn't seen _you_ in days. I told her that they were members of our team and not to worry about it, but then she wanted to know why they were visiting now when she'd never seen them around before. I didn't know how much you were comfortable with me saying, and it seemed like the less I tried to tell her, the wilder her guesses got and the more she pushed. I tell ya Pretty Boy, that woman would've made one hell of an interrogator."

Derek relaxed a little at the quiet laugh and fond smile this elicited from Spencer. He entwined their fingers and continued to speak. "So I told her." The four words were solemn, respectful. "She knows you a lot better than I thought she did. She said that she knew you weren't the type to accept 'tokens of sympathy and useless platitudes'- her words, not mine- so instead, she would just give me her number and that I should call her if I thought of anything that she could do for you. I know I should've just smiled politely and taken her number and left it at that, but I didn't. I couldn't-" He paused to gather his thoughts. "I couldn't walk away again with no way of knowing that you were okay. So, I gave her my card and asked her to call me if she thought that you needed me for any reason. I didn't exactly _ask _ her to keep an eye on you, but I know that's a copout 'cause it was clear that we were both thinkin' the same thing. Still, I knew she wouldn't call unless she thought it was necessary. That's why I kinda freaked out and drove over last night. Christine called me, and she said..."

"What?" Spencer asked softly, wondering why Derek had broken off with such a disturbed expression.

"She said she heard screaming. That it was so loud that she'd be surprised if no one called the police. I told her to stay on the line and not to leave her apartment, but she went out into the hall anyway. I was already in the car when she said that she was standing at your door and that the screaming had stopped. She said it sounded like you were talking to someone, but she couldn't make out what you were saying. You don't know how relieved I was to see you standin' there in that hallway. It didn't even occur to me until then that you'd probably had a nightmare and I was overreacting. Of course, by then it was too late. I was already there."

Derek brought his other hand to enfold Spencer's completely and met his gaze. "I don't know what happened that night, and I'll understand if you choose not to tell me right now or ever. What I did was a violation of your trust, and I'm sorry for that." He took a fortifying breath and soldiered on. "However, that's the _only_ thing that I regret. I don't regret showing up at your apartment in the middle of the night. I don't regret being there for you when you obviously needed someone. And I definitely don't regret bringing you home with me. You can scream and cuss and call me every name in the book if you want. Go ahead; I can take it. But until you tell me in no uncertain terms that you don't want this anymore- that you don't want _us_ anymore- I'm not goin' anywhere. That promise was as good as broken the second I made it, because as long as I live and breathe you are not going through _anything_ alone."

Derek's fingers stroked over the pulse point in his wrist, and Spencer knew that the effect of those words would be evident in the throb against his fingertips.

"Derek…" he breathed.

The distance between them was slowly closing, and he closed his eyes as one of his lover's hands abandoned his own and wove its way into his hair. It was a gesture that never failed to ground them both.

"I know, Baby. Me too." The hushed words ghosted across Spencer's lips, warm and moist, and then there was nothing between them at all. They sat there lost in the moment, wrapped in the comfort and absolution that could only be found in each other's embrace. It was like drowning and discovering the existence of air. It was everything and not enough.

The kiss had to end, but neither was willing to break the contact so easily. Foreheads pressed against each other, they took their first shaky breaths in the real world together.

"It's like waking up," Spencer whispered, refusing to open his eyes.

"Always wanna wake up with you," Derek murmured back, closing his own eyes at the angelic sight before him.

Spencer smiled. "Five more minutes?"

Derek heard the smile that mirrored his own. "Five more minutes."

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	17. Chapter 17: Pandora's Box

Five minutes turned to ten, and before they knew it, it was past time for Derek to head back to work. After a brief debate, Spencer convinced his boyfriend to drop him off at his own apartment, with the concession that Derek would drop by for dinner at the end of the day. They stopped at Derek's house long enough for Spencer to gather the few things he'd brought over the night before, then broke the speed limit for all 12.3 miles back to the apartment building. Hotch was an understanding Unit Chief, but they didn't want to push him _too_ much.

Spencer stood staring at the door to his apartment, mentally preparing himself for what he might find inside. He'd spent so much time obsessing over different scenarios that he'd nearly buried the initial panic. Hearing the not-so-distant echo of footsteps on the stairs at the end of the hall, he decided that it would be less embarrassing to freak himself out in the privacy of his own home. He opened the door and stepped into the apartment, not giving himself any more time to back out.

Spencer didn't know what he'd expected to find, but it certainly wasn't the lazily reclining figure of Gabriel stretched out across the sofa, greeting his entrance with fervent applause.

"Bravo! Bra-_vo_!" He pretended to open an envelope. "And the award for Best Actor in a committed relationship goes to… Spencer Reid, for his groundbreaking performance in _The Three Faces of Reid_."

Spencer glared, a surge of anger and remorse rushing through him. "That is _not_ amusing." The words were forced past gritted teeth.

Gabriel merely laughed and folded his hands upon his chest, appearing not to have a care in the world. "It's tradition to _thank_ the Academy. I don't know if I appreciate the attitude, Doc. No one forced you to lie, you know."

"The situation forced me to lie. What did you expect me to do- introduce you?"

"I am _wounded_. Why, anyone would think you were ashamed of us. Hasn't Lover Boy expressed interest in meeting more of your friends? It would be a shame to deny him this opportunity."

Spencer plopped down into the armchair opposite Gabriel and rubbed at his aching eyes. "I don't think that Derek would be too thrilled about the company I keep these days."

Gabriel swung his legs off the couch, pivoted to face the other man, and let his feet land on the coffee table with a loud thud that reverberated in Spencer's skull. "True enough, but he won't exactly be thrilled when he finds out the truth on his own, now will he?" Spencer shot him a look that was dire threat and urgent plea rolled into one.

"That's not going to happen."

The smugness on Gabriel's face faded into something akin to sympathy, and when he next spoke, his voice held none of its former amusement. "Spencer..."

"No." Whatever Gabriel had been planning to say was cut off by the sharply spoken word. "That is _not_ going to happen, Gabriel."

"Fine, Doc. I'll drop it for now. _If_ you'll allow me to give you one last piece of advice." Spencer looked at him suspiciously then gave a terse nod. "Don't think that I take personal offense at being your dirty little secret. I really couldn't care less about that. It's not about me or Silvia, or even Derek. This is about _you_. You're not a liar, Doc. Don't look at me like that. I'm not saying that you're incapable of a long-term deception. You wouldn't have made it this far in life if you were as innocent as you look. But this isn't forging signatures on permission slips and placating bill collectors or dodging nosy neighbors and Social Services. This isn't throwing on a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of sunglasses and trying to Jedi mind trick a roomful of Profilers. This is an ongoing disregard for the one person left on this planet who trusts you implicitly. Are you sure that you're willing to throw that away?"

It was clear that those words had struck a chord of truth within the young man. He didn't want to lie to Derek. He hadn't wanted to lie to any of those people, but he did what he had to do. It was survival then, and it was survival now. Derek said that he wouldn't leave. He'd made a point of affirming that each time the topic arose, but it was easy to show resolve in the face of a hypothetical situation. It was like a young man registering with Selective Service on his eighteenth birthday and enjoying all the benefits that came from that simple contract, never dreaming that war was just over the horizon.

_But then, Derek never has been the type to run away from a fight. Maybe…_

He couldn't continue to think like this. He wasn't making any new decisions, and nothing he said or did was making the decisions he'd already made any clearer. But one part of that regretful conversation was true: Spencer had always been good at distracting himself.

"The one person left in this world? Is that your way of saying that you don't trust me?"

Gabriel saw the tiny smirk that Spencer forced to curve the corners of his lips. He wondered if the genius realized how futile it was to try to fool _him_ of all people. He would figure it out eventually. For now, it was probably best to play along.

"Trust you?" he asked in an incredulous voice. "Doc, I've _seen_ of inside of your head. Anyone who's seen the things I've seen is justified in being a little dubious."

Spencer rose from the chair, arching into a stretch as he replied dismissively, "Thank you for the words of wisdom, but do forgive me if I don't heed your advice. Why should I put my trust in someone who doesn't trust me?"

"That's a valid point. I hope you find the answer before Derek decides to direct that question at _you_." His eyes were closed, and he couldn't see Spencer's reaction, but he heard the uncomfortable shifting that followed the complete stillness. It was enough. He had gotten the man thinking, and that's really all he could do for now.

"Where is Silvia?"

It wasn't unlikely that the question had been posed out of genuine curiosity and concern, but the abrupt change of topic wasn't subtle. Gabriel jerked his thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the bedroom and heard the receding footsteps as Spencer went off in search of their missing companion.

"Silvia?"

The room was cast in semi-darkness, the only light coming from the window, where the shades had been drawn to a few inches above the sill. As always, Spencer's eyes were drawn to the low-lying table in front of the window. The royal purple violets nodded their delicate heads toward the light, safe and sound in their cozy terra cotta bed. They were thriving on the daily exposure to early morning sun, and Spencer thought idly that before long, it would be time to move them to a bigger pot.

He glanced over the other items on the table: An ancient copy of the _Parlement of Foules _occupied the far right corner. The exposure to this minimal amount of sunlight couldn't hurt the book any more than the decades of being handled by careless students before it had been mercifully adopted by Diana. The burgundy faux velvet cover showed traces of underlying gray where the fabric had been worn through in places. The faded, ornate gold lettering was nearly illegible, seeming determined to fade into the background- to become a part of the book itself.

On the far left of the table lay the bound pages of a book that would forever remain unwritten. He smiled at the fact that she had chosen to continue her writing on the same typewriter after all these years. The dull, brownish color of the single dried poppy that lay upon the journal blended in with the leather cover. In the center of the table, balancing everything in perfect symmetry, were the African violets that had been lovingly transplanted into their terra cotta pot with a mixture of rich potting soil from a local market and a handful of earth from a Ziploc.

Spencer glanced around the room and saw the shelves of tomes that were too precious to mingle with the ordinary books that lined the walls of the living room. He saw the rocking chair that had followed Diana from Spencer's nursery to her bedrooms at home and at Bennington, and finally, to her last apartment. There was no way of estimating the number of hours his mother had spent in that chair. He knew that she'd recited poetry to him on many nights as she rocked him to sleep, letting the cadence of the language and the gentle, repetitive motions soothe the child in her arms.

That was during the good days, the early days- the days that Spencer was too young to remember. She had gone off of her medication for the duration of the pregnancy but faithfully resumed the regimen as soon as her son was born. From all accounts, it had been a pleasantly uneventful three years.

This painful thought compelled him toward the cedar chest at the foot of his bed. A hope chest- that was what they called it. He smiled bitterly at the irony. Why he had taken the piece of furniture from his mother's storage unit instead of just selling it off, he had no idea. She'd had no use for it, and neither did he. For years it sat empty and abandoned in the attic of their home, covered in dust and memories of a childhood that Diana Reid had long decided it was best to put away. It wasn't empty anymore.

Spencer lifted the lid of the chest that he hadn't had the nerve to open since it had arrived from Las Vegas. Every single letter he had ever written during Diana's stay in Bennington had its place in the albums that she used to collect her son's guilt like other mothers collected photographs. He put together an album of his own and collected in it the letters he'd received since her release. The last words she would ever write were safely preserved in an acid-free sleeve on the final page.

Spencer knelt to pull open the first of two drawers on the bottom of the chest. His hand slipped into the space, and he closed his eyes as he let his fingertips run over the rough texture of the item within. It hadn't been difficult to obtain. As the next of kin, it was within his rights to claim it- though he did get some strange looks when he asked. He counted each ridge as his fingers came to them: Thirteen. The traditional number of turns in a hangman's knot.

Diana Reid wasn't a stupid woman- far from it- but she'd never had a head for physics. She couldn't have known that the traditional thirteen turns made for an unstable noose, that it was best to use six to eight turns instead. She couldn't have known that a person of her weight and height would have required a measure of approximately 950 foot-pounds of force to result in a clean break of the upper vertebrae. She couldn't have known that her drop height would be 2.4 feet too short, the rope an eighth of an inch too thin. The time of death was clear in the ME's report, but how long it actually took her to die, no one would ever know.

The second drawer opened with the din of rattling pills in plastic bottles. He hadn't counted them yet, though that was the reason he'd decided to keep them. Something within him had to know how long she'd gone without her medication. Some morbid part of him just had to know how many missed doses it took to kill the woman who gave him life. It was at least six weeks' worth- that much had been confirmed by William Reid. Glancing down at the beautifully worked wood, he thought, 'This isn't a hope chest anymore. It's Pandora's Box.' And he had left it open for far too long. There was no hope there.

He held one of the small, green bottles up and squinted at it through the dim light. This particular drug was given in a graduated dosage. The initial regimen would have been one-third of this and wouldn't have been increased for at least a month. He wondered…

_I shouldn't. It's far too dangerous to play around with something as delicate as the brain's chemistry._

He tilted the bottle in his hand, wondering why he hadn't considered medication before now.

_It's __**far**__ too dangerous. Still…_

"A little learning is a dangerous thing."

"Silvia!" Spencer spun quickly, dropping the bottle as if he had been caught committing a crime. "I didn't- I mean, I wasn't going to…"

"It is always the best policy to tell the truth. Unless, of course, you are an exceptionally good liar."

Spencer opened his mouth to refute the accusation again but stopped when he noticed that her downturned eyes were still glued to the little green bottle that now lay at his feet. Her face was a picture of quiet anguish, and suddenly, it was the last thing he wanted to see. He turned away from the scene and kept his back to her as he spoke. "I thought about it, yes. Briefly." He bowed his head, letting out a weary sigh that preceded a nearly silent confession. "I don't know if I can do this, Silvia. I don't know if I can live this way for the rest of my life. As far as I know, it's been two weeks, and everything is already falling apart."

He heard the steps, light yet steady, as they approached and felt the gentle touch to his shoulder that urged him to turn. And there she stood, blue eyes wide and glistening, all of the honesty that a soul could bear staring back at him. The bottle of pills was held in her open palm and presented to him like an offering.

"Or bid me die, and I will dare

E'en Death, to die for thee.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart,

The very eyes of me,

And hast command of every part,

To live and die for thee."

The softly spoken verse took him so by surprise that, for moment, he found it difficult to speak. The words washed over him as he met her eyes and saw the fear and resolution in equal measure. She knew that her own words might seal her fate.

"Silvia? You would… ?" He didn't want to say it- couldn't bring himself to say it. In the end, he didn't have to. She understood what he couldn't say.

"I'm not afraid of death; I just don't want to be there when it happens." A tiny, brave smile lifted the corners of her lips, and Spencer knew in that moment that he could never bring himself to destroy something that pure. It would be tantamount to murder.

"'Sometimes you have to look reality in the eye, and deny it'," Spencer muttered absently, almost forgetting that Silvia was in the room. _Or __**not**__ in the room. She's __**not real**_. He dropped the pill bottle back in the chest with all the others and decided to shut the drawer on this conversation as well. "Come on," he urged, holding out a hand to the young woman, "Derek's coming over after work, and I need you to help me convince Gabriel to stay quiet and out of the way for a few hours." He faltered in his movements. "You- you aren't still angry with him, are you?"

Her smile was sardonic but more genuine this time. "How often it is that the angry man rages denial of what his inner self is telling him." She nodded once, firmly and decisively, as though committing to her words before daring to give them voice. "Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I've ever known."

It had cost her a lot to admit that- more than he could ever imagine. Spencer closed a reassuring hand around hers and gave a light squeeze that was returned almost immediately. She had offered to die for him. The least he could offer was his friendship.

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: }cm{ denotes a page break. I think… Yeah, I think that's all for now. Enjoy :)**

Spencer was just taking the lasagna out of the oven when the phone rang. Derek had called less than ten minutes ago to confirm that he was on his way, so he wondered who could be calling. Setting the hot pan on the stovetop and tossing the oven mitts onto the counter, he made his way into the living room.

"Want me to get that?" Gabriel drawled sarcastically, not taking his eyes off the Scrabble board in front of him. The blank tile that Silvia had been holding bounced off the top of his head. "'Genoa' and 'camp'," he growled, choosing to make his play rather than start another argument. "Nineteen points."

The three of them had played together for a long time before Spencer realized that it would probably be a good idea to get started on dinner. He would have preferred to make everything from scratch, but he wasn't up to a trip to the supermarket, and the frozen lasagna was convenient, if nothing else. The salad was tossed in a perfect distribution of colorful veggies; the wine was chilling nicely. The only things left to do were to warm the breadsticks and set the table. He'd planned to use his time more wisely and set everything up while the main dish was in the oven but had found himself perched on the end of the sofa, watching one of the most entertaining games of Scrabble he'd seen in years.

Not including the three matches Spencer had participated in, the two had played four games so far. Gabriel had won only one of the total seven matches, and his frustration was increasingly evident. A less stubborn man would have given up by now, but he was determined to win this one. Silvia was good. Snatching up the discarded blank tile, she smiled sweetly and made her play. 'Hippocampus': One double letter score, two double word scores, all seven tiles used. 150 points. Oh, she was _good_. Stifling a laugh at the gob smacked expression on Gabriel's face, Spencer answered the phone.

"Hello."

"Hello. Spencer?"

"Derek? Is everything alright? I can barely hear you."

There was quiet crackling for several seconds, and then Derek's voice came in crisp and clear.

"Sorry- tunnel."

"There are no tunnels between here and…" Spencer muttered in confusion. "I thought you were on your way."

"Yeah- About that… We got called in on a case. I ended up having to make a U-turn about two miles away from your place. Looks like we'll have to take a rain check on that dinner date, Pretty Boy."

Spencer scowled at the news, the disappointment written clearly across his face.

"C'mon now. Don't look like that."

A tiny smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "I hate it when you do that."

Derek laughed. "Oh yeah? Then why are you smilin'?"

They were silent for a few seconds, both imagining the other's smile, but the moment couldn't last.

"Just promise me that you'll be careful," Spencer half-pleaded.

"You know I will."

"And promise me that you won't go knocking down any doors unless you have a pretty good idea of what's on the other side."

"I promise."

"And no driving anything that can be detonated."

"Spencer-"

"I'm serious, Derek! You have to be more careful. You can't just- you can't…"

When Derek next spoke, there was no playfulness in his voice. His tone was one of understanding and reassurance. "Spencer, you know this job as well I do. You know that there are no guarantees. But I promise you- I _promise_ you that I'm gonna do everything in my power to make sure that I'm on time for our next date." There was no reply. "Spencer?"

"Fine. Tomorrow night at seven?" He heard Derek chuckle. "It was worth a shot."

"I love you, baby."

Despite how often he heard that phrase, it never failed to cause a surge of warmth to envelop him. "I love you too."

"And I love that blush."

"_Derek_," he groaned.

Another laugh. "I'll call you as often as I can."

"Alright," Spencer said resignedly.

"Bye, babe."

"Bye."

When he turned back to the room, Silvia was looking at him with a small, sympathetic smile. Gabriel continued to glare at the board game on the coffee table. Then, with an annoyed huff, he tipped his remaining tiles into the velvet drawstring bag. "So," he said, "who's up for Yahtzee?"

}cm{

True to his word, Derek made sure to call at least once a day. Sometimes it was so late at night or early in the morning that Spencer had to work to keep the sleep out of his voice. He could hear the exhaustion in Derek's voice as well, but the man always insisted that he was fine. That was as much of an update as he ever got.

The team was somewhere in Wyoming- he had been told that much- but no other details were forthcoming. Derek's reasoning was that as wild as Spencer's imagination was likely to go, the number of disastrous scenarios that he could come up with would be endless if he had even the smallest amount of data to back his speculations. Spencer had argued against that theory, but Derek stood firm in his decision.

So, once a day for eleven days, they spent a few minutes chatting about any remotely interesting subject they could find that wasn't work-related. There had even been a few quick 'I love you' calls that lasted no longer than thirty seconds each. This was the longest the two had gone without seeing each other in years. A disembodied voice on the other end of a line wasn't the same as his lover's arms, but Spencer took what comfort he could.

And then came the twelfth day.

"Will you sit still already?" Gabriel snapped, looking up from the pages of _Atlas Shrugged_. "I challenged myself to find one valid and coherent point amongst all of this inanity, and it's difficult to do that when all I can hear is that damned tapping!"

"You know what, Gabriel? Why don't you go-" Gabriel raised an amused brow, and Spencer bit back the swear that was on the tip of his tongue.

"Because that would be very uncomfortable," he deadpanned.

Red-faced, Spencer got up and left the room, a finger still tapping against the phone that he clutched in his hand. He entered the bedroom to see Silvia standing by the open window, staring out at the falling rain. She turned when she heard him come in, her serene expression now marred by a slight frown. He immediately regretted disturbing her.

"O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms?"

"It's nothing. Really. I- uh, didn't mean to intrude."

"A friend should be one in whose understanding and virtue we can equally confide, and whose opinion we can value at once for its justness and its sincerity." She sat down on the side of the bed and patted the spot next to her.

Spencer stared at her, considering just leaving the room and dealing with his current neuroses on his own, but her face was so open and sincere that he felt himself practically _compelled_ to her side. He sat down with a weary sigh, forcing himself to put down the phone. "He usually calls by now. I don't know what's going on. I don't- I don't have any _idea_ what's going on. What if he's hurt? What if he's in a hospital somewhere and they're drawing straws for 'who's going to tell Reid' as we speak? I can't take this, Silvia. If something has happened, I would prefer to just know, rather than having to sit here speculating. There's nothing for me _to_ speculate. I don't even know what city they're in!"

The sound of a ringing phone had him jumping to his feet and nearly running back into the living room, the cell phone that he had almost answered by mistake in hand. Gabriel didn't even bother looking up from his book. "Stop, drop, and roll, Doc." Spencer barely registered the comment. He answered the phone at the beginning of the third ring. "Hello? _Derek_?" he asked with more desperation than he knew he possessed. There was silence for approximately three seconds, and then:

"Hello. Is Mr. Reid available?"

Spencer's heart was somewhere between his throat and his ears. Something had to explain why he was suddenly having trouble speaking and why every sound seemed muffled, yet excessively loud. "This-" He cleared his throat, then answered with trepidation. "This is Dr. Spencer Reid speaking."

"Hello, Dr. Reid. Are you satisfied with your current car insurance rate?"

For a moment, it felt like his brain had completely shut down. He shook his head in an attempt to clear the confusion. "I'm sorry… _What_?

"Our company is dedicated to providing you the most competitive ra-"

"Oh, go to Hell!" he snarled viciously and ended the call.

"_But you see, the measure of hell you're able to endure is the measure of your love_," Gabriel read aloud. He gave a little snorting laugh. "Whaddya know? I found one."

Silvia rounded on him immediately. "It is better to keep your mouth shut and appear stupid than to open it and remove all doubt."

"Calm down. The genius knows that I was only joking."

"It is not whether your words or actions are tough or gentle; it is the spirit behind your actions and words that announces your inner state."

Gabriel got up from the sofa to face her. "You know what, Silvia? I'm sick of you acting so high and mighty. Like nothing _you_ ever say could possibly- " He stopped midsentence and shared a worried look with Silvia. "Um… Doc? Would you like to share with the rest of the class?"

Spencer stopped laughing long enough to wipe his eyes, and then proved the action useless when he started to laugh again. "I just-" he got out through hysterical bursts, "I just cursed a complete stranger. _Literally_. I told her to go to Hell."

"I suppose that's as good of a reason as any to break into hysterics."

Spencer let out a calming breath, and then, as if the thought had only just occurred to him: "Garcia!" At both of their expectant looks, he continued. "I can call Garcia for an update on the team. She always answers our calls, and she's not in the field, so it wouldn't be potentially dangerous to distract her for a minute. Actually, I don't know if it's _possible_ to distract Garcia. She may well be the only human being on the planet truly capable of multitasking." Spencer picked up the phone and dialed the direct line to her office.

"I don't know, Doc. This seems an awful lot like 'keeping tabs'." Gabriel smirked. "Are you sure Lover Boy won't mind?"

"Mind what exactly- that I'm calling another member of my team? Besides, if Derek were here to object to me calling Garcia, then I wouldn't need to call Garcia."

"You've reached the Fount of All Knowledge. How wet do you wanna get?"

"Um… Hi, Garcia."

"… _Reid_?"

"Yeah, it's… me," he said lamely. He thought that he had grown immune to her quirky manner of answering calls. Apparently, two weeks without prolonged exposure had set his tolerance back to a default level.

"Oh, Sweetcheeks, I'm sorry. I didn't recognize the number."

"It's fine, Garcia. I'm calling from my home phone, so you probably… Wait- You answer the phone like that for strangers?"

"I- Well…" She sounded genuinely embarrassed but recovered quickly. "What can I do for you?"

Now that he had her on the line, he _did_ stop to think about how Derek might react to him calling to check up on him. _He'll get over it._ "Have you heard from the team? I was just wondering how the case was going and thought that you might be able to tell me something." There was a pause, and he knew that they were both thinking the same thing. What he didn't count on, however, was Garcia coming right out and saying it.

"As much as I'd love to help you out, I have been given very strict instructions by none other than Ours Truly not to divulge any information on the case. He warned me that you might call."

"Garcia, _please_. I haven't heard from him since yesterday, and you're the only person who can tell me what's going on right now."

"No can do, Sugarplum." She heard Spencer groan. "_But_," she added, drawing out the word, "I _can _tell you that everyone is present and accounted for. Tired, overworked, and suitably disturbed by recent events (and I probably shouldn't have said _that_), but safe and sound. So, don't wear out your adorable little genius brain. And rest assured that when I do hear from him, you'll hear him from him, or else he'll hear from _me_. Capisce?"

"Understood," he replied, feeling the exhaustion from hours of constant worry finally creeping in. "Thanks, Garcia."

"No problem. I'm happy to be of service in any and all allowable capacities."

Spencer smiled and shook his head. "Bye, Garcia."

"Goodbye, Angel."

Spencer plopped down heavily onto the sofa and closed his eyes for the first time since he'd last heard Derek's voice. "I can't do this anymore."

"What? I thought you got everything all worked out: Prince Charming is off saving the day. The Good Fairy has agreed to deliver your message. And all_ you_ have to do, fair damsel, is sit right here in the castle and wait patiently. Sounds lovely. How's the needlepoint coming along?"

"Don't," Spencer headed off the defense that he knew was imminent. "Just leave it alone, Silvia. He's not saying anything that I'm not thinking anyway."

"Finally, he realizes. Now, if you'd only listen to me more often-"

"I'm tired, Gabriel. I can listen to you gloat later." He turned his back to room and set both the cordless handset and his cell phone on the end table by his head. "I need to get as much rest as I can while I'm able. I won't have that luxury for much longer. Derek's not working another case without me."

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	19. Chapter 19: The Calm

**A/N: And then life happened. *sighs* Oh, well. Let's get back to the story, shall we? Hope you enjoy! **

**Thoughts are in**_** bold italics**_.

****I do not own Criminal Minds or its associated characters.****

They called if 'grief counseling', but they both knew what it really was. Still, Reid appreciated the tact with which Hotch suggested a few sessions with a bureau recommended psychiatrist before he made any further decisions about work. Of course, it was entirely optional. Hotch wouldn't force him into therapy. It was his willingness to go that was the true test, and Hotch had to know that he would realize that. He had to know that unless Dr. Spencer Reid actually _chose_ to open up, there wasn't a psychiatrist alive who could glean a single shred of evidence as to his true mental state.

This was true of almost any profiler. In fact, it was a bit of a running joke that the Department Psychiatrist for the B.A.U. would be the easiest job in the world, because all a person would essentially have to do is sit back and wait for an agent to declare himself unfit for duty. They all realized that the evaluations were mostly just legal safeguards for the powers that be. A bureaucrat like Strauss sure as hell wasn't going to take any heat for the actions of that one profiler in a hundred who didn't have the sense to know when to quit.

'It really shouldn't have been that easy,' Reid thought as Dr. Marilyn Kemper unfolded her hands. The palms rested on the edge of her desk for all of 1.08 seconds before she reached for the gold-plated pen that she routinely used to take notes. Spencer had seen the same pen on the desks of many B.A.U. agents who had been with the Bureau for more than three years. Why three, he had never been interested enough to ask. He'd caught a few glimpses of the one that resided on Hotch's desk (coincidentally, only on days when Strauss had made a personal appearance). As far as he knew, no one else on the team had ever been granted the token.

It shouldn't have been so easy to dole out empty words of grief and acceptance with as much false sincerity as Strauss handed out bits of gold-plated metal and plastic. Personally, Spencer thought that he was the better liar. Strauss' insincerity could never be mistaken for anything other than what it was. As Dr. Kemper sat across from Spencer Reid, she saw exactly what she was supposed to see. She gave the same tiny smile that she'd let slip at the end of every session, never looking up from the paperwork to see that it was she who was being analyzed for the moment.

That smile, too smug to be a default expression of politeness yet too controlled to be a full smirk, always signaled the end of one of their sessions. It was her personal pat on the back, and the fact that it had come eighteen minutes earlier than usual told Spencer nearly all he needed to know. When Dr. Kemper unfolded her perfectly manicured hands and gave that unconscious push against the edge of the desk, as though pushing away completed paperwork to be filed by someone else, he knew it was over.

It wasn't much of an accomplishment to fool someone so easily blinded by her own high opinion of herself. A part of him wanted to lash out and wipe that contented expression off her face, but he knew that would be a bit counterproductive. So, biting back the snide comments about how helpful and observant she had been over the past four sessions, Spencer gave a reserved yet hopeful smile as he said a quiet goodbye to Dr. Kemper.

**}cm{**

"Feels like the first day of school," Spencer muttered quietly, staring up at the imposing federal building.

"You nervous?"

The mildly curious tone of voice and the carefully neutral facial expression that Morgan wore did little to make the experience less surreal. The man was worried- he had said as much during every conversation they'd had up to this day. He never spoke the words, but then he didn't have to. It didn't take a profiler to interpret the not-so-casual mentioning of accrued vacation time, the round-the-clock phone calls about nothing, or the cautious looks and even more cautious touches. Derek Morgan was more than worried.

"Walk me to class?"

Spencer heard the snort of amusement and saw the mirth creeping slowly back into his lover's eyes.

"Sure thing. I'll even show you around later- introduce you to some cool people."

"Do you think I'll fit in?"

Derek gave him an appraising look. "Probably not, but none of us do anyway."

Spencer laughed, and Derek's smile widened.

They went on like this, trading quips as they entered the building and went through the security checks. The ridiculous banter continued through the main lobby and into the elevator. It seemed like an eternity since they'd engaged in such a silly, inane conversation.

There was only one other passenger in the elevator with them, and when Derek recognized the woman as a part of the group that had witnessed his mini-breakdown two weeks ago, he couldn't resist having some fun. He leaned just a little closer to Spencer than was strictly necessary and said in a stage whisper, "I have to warn you though, Pretty Boy: I do have a bit of a reputation around here." He met the woman's gaze with a suggestively arched brow, and she immediately became preoccupied with studying the nearest wall. When the elevator doors opened at her floor, she exited as quickly as person who refused to look up could manage. The doors closed again, and Derek's laughter reverberated in the confined space.

"What?" Spencer asked, confusion evident in his voice. The look on his face only made Derek laugh harder.

**}cm{**

Other than the brightly colored tin of assorted homemade treats sitting in the middle of his desk, there were no 'welcome back's or any allusions to the fact that Reid had been away for nearly a month. Once, out of the corner of his eye, Spencer thought that he saw a member of another team moving toward his desk, looking rather purposeful and inquisitive. And then Rossi was calling the agent's name from his office door, asking about some misplaced file. Spencer had never been happier to hear the man's voice.

By 3:00, the Leaning Tower of Paperwork that Hotch had placed on Reid's desk with a barely there hint of a smile had been reduced to a few thick manila folders. More than once, Reid had caught Prentiss eyeing them jealously before turning her attention back to her own stack. Maybe he'd sneak a few away from her later.

As he reached for the next file, a folded piece of paper sailed past his head and landed neatly in his inbox. He looked back to see Morgan suppressing a smile and working a bit too diligently on his paperwork while Prentiss shook her head. He unfolded the slip of paper to read a single question written in Derek's unmistakable print:

"_Do you like me?"_

He checked the box marked 'yes', tossed the refolded note back to the now grinning Morgan, and quickly started on the next file with a grin of his own.

_**I can do this.**_

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Reid's thoughts are in **_** bold italics**_**, Silvia's and Gabriel's dialogue are **_**in quotes as well**_**. If the three are in a room alone, then it's written like standard dialogue. If anyone is confused, please let me know. **

**I realize that this chapter will read a bit case-ficcy. I hope that doesn't put you off. It was… necessary. I hope you enjoy!**

_**I can't do this**__._

"There's gotta be somethin' we can hold him on."

"If you think of anything, then let me know."

"Hotch, man, you know what'll happen if we let this guy walk."

"_**Justice without force is powerless."**_

"_**Come on, Doc. Don't just stand there. Do something!"**_

_**I can't do this.**_

"Aaron, 72 hours is almost up. Unless we find something new in the next six hours…"

"Morgan, touch base with Garcia again. See if she's managed to dig anything up yet. Dave, call Prentiss and JJ. Tell them to get back to the station. I need everybody here to figure out our next move. Reid…"

"_**For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, and breathed in the face of the foe as he passed…"**_

"_**In less than six hours, that soulless sack of shit is going to walk right out that door and disappear. You won't find him again. More women are going to die!"**_

"_**And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, and their hearts but once heaved and forever grew still!"**_

"_**Why are you being so stubborn? Why won't you just let us help you? If that man goes free- if one more person dies because of him- you'll have blood on your hands, Dr. Reid. Your stupid pride and obstinance..."**_

"Reid!"

"I can't! I just…" Spencer's eyes darted from the faces of his co-workers, who watched him with veiled concern, to those of the local police officers whose attention he'd garnered with his outburst. "I just need a minute," he forced out through shaky breaths.

There was a brief pause where everything was silent and Spencer couldn't quite meet Hotch's eyes. Then… "Go. Get your head together and be back in ten."

"Thanks, Hotch." Spencer left the room, a morose Silvia and a fuming Gabriel on his heels.

A few minutes later, he was in a seldom-used men's room of the Emmanuel County Sherriff's Department. Looking around, he could see why few people wandered this way. The police force in this rural Georgia county was small, and the budget was probably smaller. He doubted they had much money to spend on renovations.

"If it bothers you that much, you can call OSHA to complain about it later; but right now, we have about seven minutes to pry your head out of your ass."

Spencer turned to Gabriel with a glare before stooping to make sure that the bathroom stalls were empty. "Why are you doing this to me?" he hissed at the two. "I asked you- I _begged_ you to stay out of this."

"No one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of another."

"I don't need your help! I need to be left alone. I can't think with you hovering over me, tossing out random theories, judging everything that I think and do."

Gabriel's eyes flashed with anger, and to Spencer's surprise, Silvia's shoulders straightened with indignation.

"The problem, Dr. Reid, is that you're _not _ thinking, and you're sure as hell not doing anything."

"Stop telling me how to do my job! This is _my _job- _ my _career."

"And _your_ arrogance that's going to get more innocent people killed! Do you think that we want to do this? We've watched you do this job for longer than you even realize, and we have _never_ interfered. Until now. You're off your game, Doc. You need our help on this one." He raised a hand to cut off Spencer's reply. "We're not trying to do your job for you. But maybe, _maybe_, we can help point you in the right direction."

Silvia spoke up with a confidence that Reid had never heard from her. "When it is obvious that the goals cannot be reached, don't adjust the goals, adjust the action steps. Action is the real measure of intelligence."

"You have a matter of hours to figure this out. Your team is stuck. You're stuck. What do you have to lose?"

Spencer's resolve was crumbling fast, but he might still have endured had it not been for Gabriel's quietly spoken plea. "Please let us help you. They're our hands too."

Right away, Spencer knew that the man was referring to the blood that would be on his hands and the guilt that they would all share if Spencer didn't do everything within his power to solve the case. "Alright," he breathed. Then gathering himself, "Alright. Tell me what you're thinking."

}cm{

The body count was four by the time they got the call. Over the course of eight months, four women from four different towns in rural Georgia had been found murdered, exsanguinated via a single cut through both carotid arteries and the jugular vein. For a group of people so used to seeing mangled and mutilated corpses, drastic overkill and excessive gore- the results of the very depths of human depravity- these executions were downright simple. What wasn't so simple was the fact that the blood-drenched bodies of the victims had been found by their families and neighbors on their very own doorsteps. Arterial spray decorated the front doors of the houses, and there was no trail leading away from any of the bodies. They had been killed literally _steps_ away from home. It wasn't until the fourth murder, the second murder to occur in the same county, that a local sheriff requested their help.

As with any case, they started off with far more questions than answers. Victimology was a nightmare. The only thing that the women seemed to have in common was the way that they were killed and the fact that they were all mothers. There was no consistency in age, race, socio-economic status, or religious background. Three were married; one was divorced. Other than the single slit across the throat and evidence of a recent intravenous injection into their left arms, there were no marks or bruises. They hadn't struggled, and they weren't restrained.

The pieces started falling into place by the second day. Toxicology reports revealed that at the time of death, all of the women had blood alcohol levels nearly five times the legal limit, yet the autopsies showed no evidence of recent alcohol consumption. It had to have been injected directly into the bloodstream. There were also varying stages of organ damage most commonly caused by long-term alcohol abuse. After questioning the families once again, it was discovered that each of the women had begun attending weekly AA meetings at some point over the last year. They had found the connection.

The profile led them to Jonathan Parker, a 28 year old area native who had returned less than a year ago- approximately one month before the first murder occurred. He'd spent the better part of eight years traveling the country, picking up part-time jobs here and there, never staying in the same place for more than a couple of months. His father, Richard Parker, was a 'rich old bastard' as one LEO put it, who'd lived in the same town his entire life. He'd lost his wife and two year old daughter in a car accident fifteen years ago. Katherine Parker was on her way to pick up 13 year old Jonathan from school when her car careened off the side of the road and hit a tree. Her blood alcohol level was 0.17 at the time of death.

An interview with one of the Parkers' longtime neighbors proved to be rather enlightening.

"_After that, the man just sorta lost it. Shut up his business, not that he needed the money anyway. Everybody round here knows that the Parkers come from money. He just stayed up there in that house, day in, day out. Only time you ever saw him was maybe at the doctor's office or visiting the cemetery. I went up there one time, right after the accident. Little Jonathan answered the door, and I told him that I was real sorry for their loss and just wanted to drop off some dinner for him and his daddy. Well, you'd have thought I was the Devil himself standin' there, the boy looked so scared. Next thing I know, Mr. Parker's yanking the pan right out of hands, telling me that I'd done my good deed for the day and that I could just go on back to my gossip now. He slammed the door in my face, and all I could hear was him yelling and this god-awful screaming. It sounded like he was killin' the child! Well, I called the law when I got back home. Told 'em they'd best get out to the Parker Place. You know, I never did get that casserole back."_

Richard Parker hadn't been in the car with his wife that day, but it seemed that Fate couldn't resist at least attempting to finish off the Parker family. When Jonathan Parker got the call that his father had been involved in a car accident and was severely injured, he made his reluctant return back to his childhood home.

}cm{

"The father," Gabriel stated immediately. "There's something off about him. I know you felt it too."

Spencer couldn't deny that he'd been more than a little uneasy around Richard Parker. The man was callous and quick-tempered. He'd made no bones about the fact that the outsiders were not welcome in his home. Still…

"You can't be serious. Richard Parker is a quadriplegic. You can't possibly be accusing him of committing these murders." Spencer looked to Silvia, expecting her to back him in his disbelief.

"Many things are not as they seem. The worst things in life never are," she said grimly. Gabriel scoffed but didn't disagree. Spencer was still turning the words over in his head when she began to approach him, speaking in a soft, authoritative tone. "A young liar will be an old one, and a young knave will only be a greater knave as he grows older."

"We already know that Jonathan Parker's not telling us the whole truth," Reid interrupted.

Silvia shook her head sharply. "The most loving parents and relatives commit murder with smiles on their faces. They force us to destroy the person we really are."

"So, you think that Richard Parker somehow manipulated his son into murdering four women?"

"If you ask me, Doc, it wouldn't have taken a whole lot of manipulation. He's not the most well-adjusted individual." Spencer was working hard to ignore the irony of that statement when Gabriel continued, "He's also not your killer." He let out a dark chuckle at Spencer's puzzled expression. "I never said that he wasn't _involved_, Doc."

"I don't understand. This is getting us nowhere, Gabriel. I-"

Before he could finish the sentence, the bathroom door swung open to reveal David Rossi. The look on his face was one of subdued curiosity as his eyes briefly scanned the dingy room.

"You alright, kid?"

Acting on sheer impulse, Spencer utilized some quick sleight of hand and held his cellphone aloft. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just… had to take a call." For a moment, he thought he saw a brief flicker of suspicion in the older agent's eyes, but if it was there, it was gone as soon as he'd spotted it.

"Good. Hotch wants everyone in the conference room." He paused in the doorway a second longer before turning and leaving the door to creak shut behind him.

Silvia and Gabriel shared a significant look, then turned to Spencer and spoke in turn.

"The right way to begin is to pay attention to the young… What keeps us from abandoning ourselves truly to one vice, often is the fact that we have several."

"Look at his hands, Doc. Ask yourself if they're really the hands of a killer."

}cm{

After a short meeting that did nothing more than further frustrate everyone with the lack of results, Spencer found himself standing outside the interrogation room with the rest of the team. They watched from the two-way mirror as Rossi performed verbal gymnastics, trying to get _anything_ out of the now completely silent Jonathan Parker. Occasionally, their suspect would glance up at the clock on the far wall and smirk. The conversations of his co-workers faded into background noise as Spencer desperately tried to decipher the meaning behind the hints that he'd been given.

_**Okay, think. Let's assume that they were right- that Jonathan Parker isn't the UnSub. Or rather, that he wasn't acting alone. Involved. Gabriel said 'involved'. Yeah, and he also said that a man who can't even lift his own arms independently was somehow capable of slitting someone's throat from ear to ear. I must be crazy to even entertain such- Stop it! You don't have time for that. Let's just… assume that they're right. **_

**_'Many things are not as they seem.' Was she implying that Richard Parker is more capable than he appears? A C5-C6 complete spinal injury would allow very minimal, if any, use of the arms. I didn't see so much as a twitch during the interview. I suppose he could be faking disability. It wouldn't be the first time we've seen it done. But why are they so sure that he is? _**

_**Think, Spencer. Begin with paying attention to 'the young'. There must be something about Jonathan that they noticed that I didn't. And please, **__don't_ _**dwell on that fact. 'The hands of a killer.' Could you be more cryptic next time, Gabriel?! 'Several vices.' I suppose recreational murder is a **__vice __**now. Vices… No sexual element to the crimes. His mother was an alcoholic, but from the level of hatred and resentment, I doubt that he followed in her footsteps. Gambling, smo-**_

Spencer's head shot up, and the sudden action caused Prentiss to look in his direction. She saw his lips begin to move rapidly with no sound escaping. His eyes darted back and forth at the empty space in front of him. She nudged Morgan with her elbow and jerked her head in Reid's direction, inadvertently drawing not only Morgan's attention but that of JJ and Hotch as well.

_**Smoking! That's it! Look at his hands. I can't believe I didn't put it together. I can't believe I missed **__**something so obvious. **_

The agents watched as Reid continued his silent rant, hands buried in his hair, pacing a small circuit in the hall. He stopped abruptly, back turned to them, dropped his hands from the tangled mess… and laughed.

He laughed.

"Reid."

The stern voice of the Unit Chief echoed in the narrow hallway. Spencer turned to face the group again, an almost cheerful note in his voice as he asked, "Anyone got a light?" When there was no answer except the shifting of irises as his co-workers took in each other's reactions and communicated without words, he sobered immediately. "Sorry, Hotch."

There was more silence.

"Since when do you smoke, Spence?" JJ asked, trying and failing at a joking tone.

"I don't," Reid answered, taking out his cellphone and pressing number three on his speed-dial. "Excuse me a moment. I need to test a theory."

"Pretty Boy, where-"

"I'll be right back," Reid called over his shoulder. "Garcia, I need you to look into something…"

Spencer returned a few minutes later holding a pack of Marlboro Reds and a disposable lighter in one hand and an ashtray in the other.

"Got it," he announced, "Luckily one of the local officers just happens to smoke this brand. Though I suppose it's not really luck, considering the fact that Marlboro is the most popular brand of cigarette, statically comprising over-"

"Reid," Hotch interrupted before they got a full report on the popularity of tobacco brands by region. "Care to explain this?" he asked, with a terse nod at the items in Spencer's hand.

"I have an idea. I might be able to get Parker to talk."

"With those?" He looked skeptical.

The door to the interrogation room opened, and Rossi came strolling out. He took one look at the unusual standoff between Reid and the rest of his team members, then at the items in Reid's hands and commented drily, "There's no smoking in the building, kid. You'll have to take it outside."

"If my theory is correct, then that won't be a problem. Hotch," he addressed the leader, "I know that you have no idea where this is coming from, and I promise that I'll explain everything once I know if there's anything to explain. Just give me a few minutes. If I'm right, then we will have gained some new insight into the case. If I'm wrong, we will have lost five minutes of watching Parker stare down the clock."

In the end, it wasn't much of a difficult decision. The only thing that Aaron Hotchner hated more than secrecy was an unsolved case.

}cm{

"6 minutes."

"What?" Jonathan Parker looked up in surprise. He'd expected Agent Rossi to come back for another round. His eyes went to the pack of cigarettes that had been tossed in front of him. An ashtray and disposable lighter were placed on the table close to the pack of Marlboro Reds.

"6 minutes," the young doctor repeated. "It's the amount of time that one cigarette shortens a person's life. But…" he paused, taking the seat across from Parker, "that probably won't matter much."

Jonathan sat up a bit straighter from his slouched position. His gaze traveled from Reid to the two-way mirror back to Reid and finally settled on the wall clock.

"4 hours, 27 minutes, and…" Reid checked his watch, "16 seconds." This time, instead of surprise or wariness, he saw a hint of annoyance in Parker's face. "Well," he gestured toward the items on the table, "go ahead."

"No thanks."

Reid tilted his head slightly, as though confused by the refusal. "You've been locked in this room for hours, under highly stressful circumstances. I have to say that your willpower is remarkable."

"I don't smoke," Parker sneered.

"I don't understand. This _is_ your brand, isn't it?"

"I said I don't smoke!" he snapped, glaring over Reid's head at the clock.

Unfazed by the outburst, Spencer asked, "Then why was there a pack of this particular brand of cigarettes on one of the side tables in your living room?" In an instant, Parker's eyes snapped away from the clock to lock with Reid's. "You've said yourself that your father is a recluse- that he hasn't allowed anyone besides you to enter the house for months."

They stared each other down for what felt like minutes.

"I quit."

"When?"

"Recently."

"How recently?"

Jonathan Parker's fists slammed down on the table, the chains on his cuffed wrists clanging loudly. Spencer held up a hand to the mirror, forestalling any intervention from his team, and waited for Parker to rein in his anger.

"Alright. So, you quit. Can you explain to me why the house smelled faintly of tobacco smoke on the day of your arrest?"

"I told you: I quit recently."

"Yes. And as I said before, your willpower is remarkable. How long were you a smoker, by the way?"

Parker shrugged uncomfortably. "I dunno… ten, eleven years."

Spencer smiled. "That's interesting."

"What?"

Reid could see the panic beginning to set in as Parker sat completely upright for the first time during the entire interrogation process. Gone were the smug, laid back posture of the last couple of days and the tired yet bored slouch of the past few hours. He was on alert. Dr. Spencer Reid had gotten his attention.

"It's interesting because, looking at your hands, I would have never guessed that you quit smoking less than three days ago. And after ten years. Your nails show none of the discoloration associated with long-term smoking. True, there are ways of removing the stains- various treatments and cleaning solutions- but none that you've had access to within the last three days. And none that would be entirely effective. The only guaranteed treatment is time. Fortunately, human fingernails grow between 0.5 and 4 inches per year, so if you had said that you quit smoking a few _months_ ago, I might believe your story."

"That's what I meant. I-" But Reid wasn't stopping.

"Now your father, on the other hand… His fingernails have a _significant_ amount of discoloration- yellowing from tar deposits left behind as a smoker holds a cigarette. Smoking also decreases the flow of oxygen to the area, which further discolors the nail and nail bed. But I have to wonder why a man who has purportedly had no use of his arms or hands for the past 8 months would have fingernails that show signs of frequent tobacco use."

When it was clear that Jonathan Parker couldn't bring himself to form a rational reply, Reid couldn't resist adding, "No answer?" Just when it seemed that a sarcastic retort was right on the tip of Parker's tongue, the door to the interrogation room swung open and Prentiss stuck her head around the corner. "Garcia's got something," she said briskly.

Spencer calmly gathered the cigarettes, ashtray, and lighter. "Sorry to cut this short, but we only have 4 hours, 21 minutes. I'm sure you understand."

Before going in to see if he could get a reaction out of Jonathan Parker, Spencer had requested that Garcia look into Richard Parker's medical history. He'd particularly wanted to know the details surrounding his injury eight months ago and the doctor who'd made his diagnosis. It took 1 hour, 4 minutes to get to the doctor's private practice and exactly five minutes to get him to admit to being paid to falsify medical records. Search warrants for all local properties belonging to Richard Parker were issued, and the evidence found in one of the houses would have been enough to convict ten men.

}cm{

"And _that_, people, is why I don't do family reunions," Morgan announced as they boarded the jet.

Prentiss snorted. "Neither do I, but a weekend of drunk cousins, three-legged races, and explaining why you're not married yet is a little different than reconciling your differences with a good old-fashioned killing spree."

"You might have a point," he answered and took the seat next to Reid.

"I for one can't wait to get back to civilization." Rossi let out a longsuffering sigh as he sank into his seat. "Do you have any idea what red clay does to Italian leather?" The team laughed, and Hotch shook his head but didn't look up from the file in his hand.

"Well it's a short flight. There's no point in trying to get any sleep. Anyone up for a game?" JJ asked, holding up a pack of cards. Morgan and Prentiss both agreed right away, but there was no answer from Reid. "Spence?"

"No thanks, JJ. I think I'll sit this one out," he answered distractedly. Spencer closed his eyes, the sounds of shuffled cards and light banter becoming background noise to his inner dialogue.

"Hey. You alright, man?" Morgan whispered next to his ear a few minutes later.

"Yeah. I'm fine." Spencer forced a reassuring smile. "Just tired. I think I'll go stretch out on the couch."

He'd made it two steps down the aisle when Hotch called out, "Reid." Spencer turned to face him, fully expecting and dreading to hear another person ask if he was alright. "Good job today," he said simply and was back to perusing files before Reid could even respond.

"Thanks," Spencer replied and made his way to couch. He stretched himself out with his back to the others and gave in to pondering the dilemma that he could no longer avoid. The insecurity that had plagued him for nearly a month was gone. He wasn't dispensable. The team still needed him. The question was, how much of him did they really need?

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who has stuck with this story. ***_**crickets chirping**_*** **

**Okay… right. Well, I'm a bit nervous because we're getting near the climax of the story. I hope you enjoy!**

To say that it had been a hard case would be an understatement. There were no words for what they'd seen. A comforting pat on the shoulder from Rossi felt like shards of glass being driven into Reid's flesh- glass as broken as the eleven decaying bodies heaped together in a mass grave.

Everything hurt. Not physically- his body hadn't been hurt this time- but his heart, his mind, his very soul _ached._ He knew that they couldn't save them all, but this time, they had saved no one. The list of victims would continue to grow. The crime scene photos of dismembered forms would become fodder for some other BAU team's nightmares.

They were done.

In every sense of the word, they were done.

No one slept on the flight back. No one read, though Hotch and Reid both feigned the act. No one called Morgan on the fact that the headphones placed over his ears were purely for show. There was no music that he would risk later associating with this day.

The inside of Reid's left arm itched, and he put down the book and tried to claw at the ants in his veins as discreetly as possible. He wasn't discreet enough. A look across the jet- no smiles or nods- just a meeting of gazes held for long enough to know that there was something to be read. They looked away at virtually the same time, both continuing the charade of a typical case ending.

They were the last to deplane. Derek continued to stare out the window, proving that the scenic view wasn't what had kept his attention for the past three hours. Spencer sat just as silently on the other side of the jet, but it may as well have been a continent away for the solitude that he felt.

"Spencer," Derek spoke, puffs of warm breath ghosting his reflection in the window, "I don't think you should be alone tonight. I don't think any of us should."

Spencer clenched his eyes shut. The images kept coming. "I'm fine, Derek. Or as fine as anyone else. Go home. Do what you need to do, and don't worry about me."

None of them could tolerate company on these nights. None of them were in any shape to give support to another living being. Hotch and JJ would go home and watch their children sleep. Rossi would have a few drinks and contemplate a second retirement. Prentiss would give in to that twice a year desire to hear her mother's voice. Derek would take a sledgehammer to another wall, pouring all of his built-up anger and grief into destroying something that couldn't bleed. And Reid…

Reid would turn on every light in his apartment and try not to let the darkness spill over into the words that he wrote. There was no need to be cautious about that anymore. There would be no more juggling of adjectives and adverbs in an attempt to shelter someone he loved from the realities of his existence. There would be no more letters.

Now wasn't the time to think about that. Right now, Spencer's only concern had to be for the man who had done nothing but take care of him for the past five months. He wished that he could do more, but the best thing that he could do for Derek tonight was to release him from his self-imposed responsibility. He gathered his things calmly, shoving down the overwhelming urge to curl up in one of the seats and wait for the chill of the early October air to seep into the cabin and numb him from the outside in. "I'll be fine- we all will. We always are."

Derek released something that sounded like a laugh, but there was no humor in the brittle noise.

"Like Gideon? Like Elle? Or Ryan? Or Rossi the first time around? We're _never_ fine, Spencer. We just keep goin' until…" he trailed off, letting the hand that had punctuated each question fall back to his lap. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be layin' this on you. It's not like you don't know."

Spencer set down his bags and settled into the seat next to Derek. He took the hand nearest his and laced their fingers together. Even with that minimal contact, he could feel the tension that ran through Morgan's body. He gave the hand a gentle squeeze and wasn't at all surprised when the gesture wasn't returned. This was why Derek needed to be alone tonight. He wouldn't trust himself not to crush Spencer's hand at the moment. He couldn't trust himself to be the man that he tried to be every day of his life. There was no sense of balance left. There were only extremes.

"I know," Spencer agreed softly. "I know that we all have different ways of coping. I know that you're doing your best to deny that so that you can be there for me." He took a deep breath and soldiered on. "I know that if I go home with you tonight, you'll completely shut down. You won't allow yourself to feel anything because you're afraid that _everything_ will come out."

"You know a lot." The half-hearted joke did little to ease the tension.

"So I've been told." He gave the hand one more firm squeeze, brushed his lips across Derek's cheek, and stood. "Come on. You can give me a ride home."

**}cm{**

"_Are you happy here, Spencer?"_

"_Mom, what are you doing out here?"_

"_Lo, the summer is dead, the sun is faded,_

_Even like as a leaf the year is withered,_

_All the fruits of the day from all her branches_

_Gathered, neither is any left to gather."_

"_Algernon Charles Swinburne."_

"_It's beautiful here. I haven't seen a proper autumn since I was a kid." She fixed discerning blue eyes on Spencer. "Are you__** happy**__ here, Spencer?"_

"_Mom, I- Yes. I think so."_

"_Sit." She waited for him to sit beside her on the bench. "What's bothering you, baby? Don't even think of lying to me. It's the one thing I have no hope of you ever accomplishing."_

"'_A mother always knows.'," he sighed._

"_So, then you know that I won't drop the subject until you tell me what's on your mind."_

_They sat watching the scenery for a few silent moments._

"_It's harder than I thought it would be," he admitted._

"_It usually is."_

"_I just keep thinking, 'If we'd only gotten the case sooner. If we'd spent less time following a false lead. If I'd only…"_

"_Oh, honey… Spencer, look at me. You could have been anything in the world, but you chose this. Or do you regret all the lives that you've helped save."_

"_No, of course not," he started._

"_It's not an equation that you can balance. If you saved a hundred lives, you would still feel the loss of one. It's who you are, baby. If you're going to continue to do this job, you have to accept that."_

_Spencer thought over her words. "What if I can't? What if- Mom?"_

"_Shh." She held up a hand and looked toward the woods that bordered the park. "Do you hear that?"_

"_Hear what? Mom, where are you going?"_

"_Spencer, you __**have**__ to hear that." Her brisk walk became a jog and then a full out run._

"_Mom!" Spencer called, hurrying to catch up with her. She answered without slowing or looking back. "They're in there, Spencer; they're all in there!" She breached the border of trees and disappeared into the woods. _

"_Mom, stop! Whatever you're hearing, it's not real!"_

"_Mom?" Spencer whispered. The dark of the forest was unsettling. He could see the bright afternoon sunlight filtering in through the trees behind him, but he couldn't turn back. "Mom, please; it's not real!"_

"_My poor baby." Her voice seemed to come from every direction. "They are real- __**all**__ of them, my angel. All of your mistakes."_

_Spencer took one step toward where he guessed she would be and halted at the sickening crunch. He looked down at what he hoped would be a twig, and the broken fingers of a skeletal hand lay crushed beneath his shoe. He leapt away, eyes now on the forest floor._

"_All of your failures," Diana's voice echoed sadly._

_A gust of wind disturbed the bright autumn leaves that blanketed the ground. Spencer looked on, horrified, as eleven faces stared back at him with accusing eyes._

**}cm{**

Spencer threw the covers off of himself, clawing at his arms hard enough to welt the skin.

Silvia spoke softly, "The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she, who thicks man's blood with cold." She reached for Spencer's hand, and he jerked away, nearly falling to the floor. Stumbling his way to the bathroom, almost blind in his haste, he ignored the pleas of his companions. He didn't even spare a moment to undress before stepping into the shower and letting the ice-cold jets shock him out of the waking terror. He sat down on the shower floor, wet hair twined around his fingers and pulling at his scalp. Still the images came.

"Doc?" Gabriel stood in the doorway. Spencer began to hum tunelessly. "Doc," he tried again, huffing in frustration when there was no response. He disappeared from the room, and Spencer could hear a whispered argument taking place in the next room. "Fine!" Gabriel snapped and made a reappearance in the doorway. "Silvia has requested that I make known our concern," he said as though he were reciting. He looked at the drenched, shivering figure and reached over to turn the water temperature to warm.

"If you're going to ignore me, at least have the decency not to freeze to death while doing so."

"Helps me wake up," Spencer mumbled. "I need to wake up."

"You realize that you _are_ awake, right? Surely your dreams aren't this boring."

"I-" Spencer started to speak but stopped abruptly. He clamped his left hand over his mouth and clenched his eyes tightly shut. The same tuneless song grated at the back of his throat.

"You can't keep doing this. You can't run away from this, Doc." The humming grew louder and more frantic. "You have to sleep."

"No." Spencer shook his head, his right hand still clutching a handful of wet hair. "It keeps coming back. Leaves… Faces… Leaves…"

Gabriel stood silently, listening as Spencer whispered those words over and over. Suddenly, his bloodshot eyes snapped open, and he turned the water temperature up to near-scalding. Slowly, his fingers untangled themselves from his matted hair, and his body relaxed.

"Where is Silvia?" he asked in an oddly flat tone.

For the first time that he could remember, Gabriel was truly taken aback. "She's in the living room. Why?"

"Keep her there. I have to change."

Gabriel arched a brow. "You've got to be- You know what? Never mind. Whatever you say, Doc."

Spencer stood and began to strip off the soaked clothing. "Thank you."

Keeping Silvia in one place was harder than Gabriel thought it would be. While Spencer finished showering, she hovered at the bathroom door, quietly insisting that he shouldn't be left alone. When he emerged from the steam-filled room in a thick terry robe, Gabriel had to block her path to keep her from following him into the bedroom. She was getting more worried by the minute, and Gabriel couldn't blame her for that. He knew what she was feeling, because he felt it too. It was a keen sense of disconnection. Spencer was shutting down, and for the first time, neither of them could decisively say what the man was thinking.

"I'm going out."

They both rose from the couch at the sound of Spencer's voice.

"I need you two to stay here."

"No," Gabriel immediately refused.

"It… is not good for Man to be alone," Silvia said warily.

Spencer glared at them for a few seconds before turning his back on them and heading for the door. "Do what you want. Just stay out of the way." And he walked out the door without a backward glance.

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: I'd like to give a huge, sincere 'thank you' to everyone who took the time to review on the last chapters. I lean more toward reading and writing somewhat lighter stories, so this fic takes a bit out of me. What keeps me writing is knowing that there are people out there who are still reading and enjoying this story. Thanks for your patience and support. It is much appreciated.**

"Anyone up for 'I Spy'?" Gabriel asked from the backseat of the car. Spencer continued to stare straight ahead.

"An inability to stay quiet is one of the conspicuous failings of mankind."

"Come on- it'll be fun. I'll get us started: I spy with my little eye something… foolish. Care to guess, Doc?"

In the rearview mirror, Spencer could see Silvia lay a hand on Gabriel's arm and shake her head.

"You know, for someone so smart…" Gabriel muttered, shaking his own head in disgust. "I thought we were past this stupid pride issue. We're the only people in the world capable of understanding exactly what you're going through, and you're shutting us out."

Spencer's focus was back on the road. There was a ten minute period in which no one spoke.

"At least tell us where we're going. The suspense is killing me," Gabriel said sarcastically. Their gazes met again in the rearview mirror, and he could see the loathing in Spencer's eyes.

"I asked you not to come."

Spencer knew where and when just about every Narcotics Anonymous meeting in the area was held. He'd prevaricated over the lists long enough to have them memorized, with or without an eidetic memory. He'd driven past so many community centers and stood at the doors of so many church basements that even he had almost lost count. Eventually, he worked up the nerve to step through the door, and after that first meeting, he'd managed to stay clean for a grand total of three days. It was three days of hell, but it was a hell that he'd survived. On that third day of excruciating sobriety and crumbling self-resolve, Spencer stood outside the door of another randomly selected NA meeting, gathering the courage to face another group of strangers with whom he had nothing in common save for a common march along the path to self-destruction.

That was where he'd met Allan.

"_Allan, like Poe's middle name. Don't ask me why," he'd shrugged._

He had seemed like a nice enough guy, and they'd hit it off almost instantly. Looking back on it now, it was almost enough to make Spencer laugh. Allan wasn't just a nervous man standing outside of an NA meeting, trying to talk himself into taking that next step. No- that kind of man was his target. Sometimes he would even attend the meetings, always sitting at the back, scouting out the weakest prey to pounce on later.

"Doc, what are we doing here? We shouldn't be here."

Spencer pulled into the insufficiently lit parking lot. His eyes roved over the few figures moving in and out of the building, searching for one in particular.

"It's Tuesday," Gabriel pointed out.

"I know."

If Allan kept to his old schedule, this was the meeting he would hit tonight.

"Doc- Spencer, don't do this. We can find another meeting. You can call John or- or Derek, if that's what you want, but don't do this."

"Stay in the car."

Silvia lurched forward and clutched at Spencer's arm. "I remember," she said shakily. "My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense. I often wish the night had borne my breath away." Her words dissolved into bitter sobs. She released Spencer's arm and covered her face with her hands. "I remember…"

"I'm sorry," Spencer whispered and closed the car door behind him.

Allan was sitting in the back row of folding chairs, inconspicuous as ever. His expression was earnest and sympathetic as the men and women around him shared their hardships and struggles, their everyday victories with the rest of the group. A woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties spoke about the recent death of her twelve year old daughter, and Spencer could swear that he saw a tear in Allan's eye.

"Bastard deserves an Oscar," Gabriel snorted. "Can we leave now? He's found his newest customer. Let's not give him another."

By the time the meeting ended, Spencer felt like he was about to jump out of his skin. Gabriel kept up a constant monologue of insults and pleas. The flesh and blood reminders of what he had escaped some four years ago were all around him. The faces may have changed, but the stories had not- at least, not the common thread.

"_It helps."_

And the crux of it was, it really did.

He watched as Allan approached the woman after the meeting was concluded. He saw the raw pain and desperation that wracked her thin body as she held back a sob at something that Allan said. Before long, he had an arm draped around her shoulders and was leading her out into the cool night air. He watched as the same scene from countless nights played out before him. He wanted to run across the parking lot and yank the woman out of the path of the runaway train that her life was about to become.

"She was so close," he whispered sadly.

Gabriel turned away from the scene to face Spencer. "Eleven months," he nodded. "But then, what is that compared to four years?"

Spencer drew his coat tighter around himself, as though the heavy wool could keep out the truth as well as the cold. "I don't want to be a hypocrite."

"Then don't. You're too smart for this, Doc. You could quote a thousand statistics on addiction recovery and relapse, and you'd ram them down the throat of anyone in this situation. You're the smartest person you know; you should listen to yourself."

Spencer let out a bark of hysteria-tinged laughter. "I _have_ been listening to myself. I've been listening to myself for years, apparently." He laughed louder. "Myself is in the backseat of my car, crying its eyes out because it 'remembers'. Well, guess what? I remember too! I remember _everything_, Gabriel."

_**Leaves… Faces… Leaves… Faces… All of them, my angel… **_

_**All of them….**_

He clenched his eyes shut and pressed the tips of his fingers to his temples. He could feel the headache coming. "I can't forget. I don't want to hurt you or Silvia. Or- or myself. But if I have to remember, I'd rather not feel. It _helps_."

He opened his eyes to curious stares.

"Are you alright?"

An older man had separated from the small group and was approaching him slowly. Spencer was mortified. Some of the people were quietly making their way to their vehicles, but many of them just stood there giving him wary looks and whispering amongst themselves. Did they think that he was some crazy person whom it might be dangerous to approach or just a guy who'd gotten ahold of too much of the wrong drug? He couldn't believe that he had been this careless.

The man gave Spencer a considering look. "Do you need a ride home?"

"I'm… fine. Thank you," he managed to say.

"Are you sure?" he asked, stepping closer. "If you'd like, we can go back inside where it's warm. Maybe grab a cup of hot chocolate and talk a while. You didn't speak at the meeting."

"I'm sorry. I-" Spencer tried to think of an excuse, but the man waved it off.

"That wasn't a judgment, just an observation. Is this your first time? I don't think I've seen you here before."

"I should really be going," Spencer said, stepping back to put more distance between them.

"Here," the man said, pulling out his wallet, "take this." He handed over a plain black and white business card. "You're always welcome here. Remember that."

"Thank you," he said hoarsely, and took off at a brisk walk before the man could say another word. Spencer's steps faltered as he neared his car. A shadowy figure that he half feared and half hoped was in his imagination was leaning casually against the driver's side door.

"Hello, Spencer."

"Allan."

"It's been a long time."

"Not nearly long enough," Gabriel growled.

"Yeah. It's been… It has."

Allan laughed. "Still great with small talk, I see. Why don't we cut to the chase, then? What can I do for you?"

It had been so long that Spencer didn't think he could say the words. As it turned out, he didn't need to.

"As I recall, you were a bit of a connoisseur. A guy like you…" He gave Spencer a sly smile. I doubt if your tastes have changed. Lucky for you, I have just what you need."

Spencer hated how Allan had always used that word with him. He called Spencer his 'connoisseur' because he absolutely refused to buy anything other than Dilaudid. Even if he couldn't get it that day, he had never settled for anything less than pharmaceutical grade. That didn't make him a connoisseur; that made him cautious, perhaps even _discriminating_. He wasn't a connoisseur. It was too bad that Emily Post didn't have a section on pointing out incorrect word usage to drug dealers.

"How much?" he asked.

"For you, twenty apiece for the eights."

"Tablets?"

"I'm not running a convenience store here. If you want the vials, I'll need a little time."

It was twice what the pills were worth. Still, he'd paid more than ten dollars for an eight milligram tablet before, and he would now. Spencer handed over a few bills; Allan arched a brow and handed over a clear plastic bag that held five smaller bags containing two tablets each.

"You might wanna take it easy. I'd hate to lose a friend, you know."

Spencer didn't bother responding. He opened his car door and was about to step in when Allan called out to him. "Hey, Spencer- catch!" He caught the object on reflex and looked down at his hands to see a pack of two sealed sterile syringes. "Welcome back." Allan laughed and walked away.

**{cm}**

"Get her out of here, Gabriel."

Silvia had been weeping and raving for the better part of an hour. It was a miracle he'd made it home in one piece with the constant distraction. She followed him from room to room, her speech becoming more fevered with each passing minute. She was barely coherent now, and at times, her words were abandoned completely for anguished screams.

"Get her out of here. _Please_," he begged. "She can't see this."

"And I _can_? What do you care about either of us? What do you care about _yourself_? Don't make us do this again, Spencer. We won't come back from it this time. You know that."

Spencer discarded the damp wad of cotton flecked with off-white debris and stared at the cloudy fluid in the syringe.

"Death, death, death, death, death! Nevermore shall I escape!"

The tourniquet pinched his skin and made the blue lines of his veins stand out in stark contrast against the pale skin of his inner arm.

"You stupid son of a bitch- Listen to us!"

He swiped the area with an alcohol swab, and in the back of his mind he wondered why he bothered. Why did it matter whether he used sterile water and syringes or filters for the poison that he was about to push into his veins? Was it so that he could live long enough to do it again… and again… and again… and…

He picked up the syringe, and Silvia let out a scream that could wake the dead. He couldn't look at her- at either of them. The needle touched his skin. He hesitated for just a moment, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. And then, a sharp pain.

Spencer's eyes flew open, and the syringe clattered to the floor. Silvia had gone silent. Gabriel stood before him, the keen edge of the kitchen knife in his hand gleaming with fresh blood.

"You fucking coward," he seethed. "If you want to die that badly, I'll give you a hand."

"How did it come to this?"

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Special thanks to NatNazzy, reelingthoughts, and WheresReenie for reviewing on the last chapter. I think that this story is destined to have one review for every thousand words, lol. Sorry for the cliffhanger, guys. I couldn't resist :) I hope you enjoy!**

Spencer didn't hear the turning of the key in the lock. He didn't hear the quick footsteps or the sharp intake of breath. He didn't hear the swear that followed. He lay there in the quiet dark of the bedroom, in the company of his two sentinels. They'd refused to leave him alone for even a second, and in the end, he'd resigned himself to their company. He was too tired to argue anymore.

The door eased open with a quiet creak, and light flooded the room. He could hear the footsteps approach and stop a foot away from where he lay. The faint, familiar scent of Derek's aftershave had him opening his eyes. He was really here. Worried eyes met his, searching for something— what, Spencer didn't know. Then the silence was broken.

"Are you sober?"

"What?" Spencer asked, taken aback.

"I found a full syringe on the kitchen floor. Were you already too stoned to get the needle in your arm?"

Spencer's heart was pounding in his chest. "Derek, I didn't-" he said, sitting up, "I swear I didn't."

"There's paraphernalia laid out on your kitchen table like party favors. Did you expect me not to see it? Where's the rest of it, Reid?"

Spencer fought the cringe at the use of his last name. Derek was so angry, but Spencer was still too tired to argue.

"In my bag," he answered simply.

Derek's eyes scanned the room until they rested on the messenger bag that had been flung into a far corner. He picked it up, dumped it out onto the bed, and looked down at the contents: Spencer's wallet, a few loose bills and change, several receipts from local stores, and a bag containing nine white tablets.

"Dilaudid?" he asked, and Spencer nodded.

"Is this all of it?" Spencer nodded again.

He sat down on the side of the bed with his head in his hands. It looked like the weight of the world had settled around his shoulders, and Spencer felt the weight of his own guilt, knowing that he was the cause.

"Derek," he started, resting a tentative hand on his shoulder, "I know how bad this looks, and I wanted to-" he faltered at the glare that he received from Gabriel. "I wanted to, but I didn't."

Derek shook his head. "I said I'd help you, and I will, but you have to be honest with me, Spencer. I can't help you if you're not honest." He took Spencer's hand and looked him in the eyes. "Are you using again?"

"No," Spencer answered without hesitation.

A few seconds passed with neither looking away from the other. Then Derek's arms were around him. "I believe you," he said with relief in his voice. He held Spencer as though he would fade away. "God, Spencer, that was the scariest phone call I've ever gotten." Spencer tensed in his arms.

"What phone call?" He pulled away to look at the man's face. If Derek had been keeping tabs on him again… "What phone call?" he repeated with a touch of anger. To his surprise, Derek didn't seem contrite or angry; he seemed confused.

"The phone call you made not thirty minutes ago asking me to come over."

"I didn't make any phone call, Derek."

"Careful, Doc," Gabriel warned from his corner of the room. Spencer fought to not let his eyes stray toward the distraction.

"Spencer, you scared the hell outta me. I picked up the phone, and you didn't say so much as 'hello' before demanding that I get my ass over here right now because you couldn't handle this alone anymore. Then, it sounded like you were cryin', and you kept saying something about sin and making a lash."

Spencer searched his mind for anything relative. "'I made a lash of my remembered sin'," he guessed.

"Yeah, that's it. You kept sayin' it over and over, and then the line just went dead. How do you not remember…? Spencer?"

Spencer was glaring fixedly at a spot over Derek's shoulder, his body tense with barely suppressed rage, but before Derek could question the change in his demeanor, he exploded.

"You had no right!"

Derek stared wide-eyed, wondering what he had done to incite this level of anger. Then, Spencer was on his feet, his eyes on that same fixed point.

"It wasn't your decision to make. This is _my life_. You can't just-" He turned his head to glare at another point and appeared to listen. Derek stood cautiously and observed the one-sided conversation.

"I don't want to hear it! I would have expected something like this from him, but not from you. Whatever happened to not interfering?

This is not the same thing, and you know it.

I wouldn't have died.

Silvia, _please_.

No, of course I'm grateful.

You arrogant, self-righteous son of a bitch!"

"Stop crying!" he suddenly screamed, then soothed, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Just, please stop crying, Silvia."

Derek had seen enough.

"Who is Silvia?" he asked.

Spencer whirled to face him. The most terrifyingly vacant smile curved the corners of his lips. "What is she that all our swains commend her?"

Derek couldn't speak. He didn't know what to say. In the following silence, he struggled to form his next words, and Spencer seemed to sober. The almost manic gleam in his eye was gone, replaced by some unnamed fear.

"Who is Silvia, Pretty Boy?" Derek asked softly. He forced a tiny, reassuring smile as he moved closer to the other man.

"A friend," he replied after a beat.

Derek tipped his head toward the space where Spencer had directed most of his animosity. "And your other friend?"

"Gabriel."

Derek nodded again, taking Spencer's hands in his. "How many friends do you have?"

"I'm not crazy, Derek." There was desperate conviction in the words.

"I never said you were," he answered calmly. He pulled back the sleeves of Spencer's shirt and inspected first one arm and then the other. It was odd how compliant Spencer was being, and in Derek's mind, it was one more reason to worry.

"No track marks," Spencer whispered, giving voice to Derek's thoughts.

"No." He almost wished that there were.

"I wasn't lying."

"You weren't." He trailed his hands over the arm that he still held outstretched. "These are some pretty nasty scratches," he commented.

"Nightmares," Spencer said, shifting a bit and emitting a strangled humming noise. It took everything within Derek not to react to the terror and desperation in that strange, wordless plea.

"And what happened here?" he asked in the same soothing tone. He ran his fingers lightly over the tightly wrapped wrist. Splotches of crimson had soaked through the white bandage like a nightmarish version of a Rorschach test.

Spencer pulled his arm away and tugged down the sleeves of his shirt. "I don't want to talk about it."

"How did you hurt yourself?" Derek persisted.

"I didn't," he snapped, glaring venomously at empty space.

"One of your friends hurt you?"

Spencer ended what must have been a staring match and focused his attention back on Derek.

"Don't do that. Don't talk to me like I'm five years old. No one talked to me like I was a five-year-old when I _was_ a five-year-old. It's insulting."

"Baby, I wasn't trying to-"

Spencer scoffed. "No, _baby_- of course you weren't. Will you shut up?! This is _your_ fault. He wouldn't even be here if it weren't for you." The transition was so abrupt that for a second, Derek thought that Spencer was yelling at _him_. "Like _you_ were 'just trying to help'? Well, at least I know that Derek won't come after me with a kitchen knife," he said bitterly.

Derek felt his stomach drop to somewhere near his feet. "Ba- Spencer, why would… Gabriel," he guessed, "want to hurt you?"

Spencer looked at him as though trying to decide whether or not to answer. "He didn't. Want to, that is. He was trying to stop me. I-" He closed his eyes, too ashamed to witness the disappointment that he knew would be written upon Derek's face. "I had the needle ready. I was going to do it. Gabriel stopped me. I just wanted to sleep, Derek. To forget. I'm so tired," he finally sobbed.

"Shh…"

Spencer clutched fistfuls of Derek's shirt while sobs wracked his body. "I'm so tired."

"I know. It's gonna be okay."

"Derek?" he hiccupped after a while, pulling away from the embrace.

"Yeah, baby?"

"What are you going to do?"

It was a good question- one that Derek wasn't entirely prepared to answer.

"For now… For now, I'm gonna pack you a bag, and you're spending the night at my place. We can talk this out when you've had some rest. Okay?"

"Okay. I have a go bag already packed."

"Where is it?"

Spencer pointed toward the bag and watched with some confusion as Derek emptied it of every item then repacked it. When that was done, he approached Spencer slowly, and barely able to make eye contact, he spoke. "I'm sorry, Spencer."

"Why?"

Derek's hands traveled the length of Spencer's long legs, stopped to dip into his pockets, and continued on. "I'm sorry," he repeated when they were face to face.

"I understand," Spencer whispered. He sat down on the bed to put on his shoes, stood up, pulled out the drawer of the nightstand, and went to wait by the open bedroom door.

With a heavy heart, Derek walked over to the open drawer and retrieved the revolver that lay within. "Okay. Let's go."

_TBC…_

**Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.**


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